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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



READINGS IN 
AMERICAN LITERATURE 



SELECTED AND EDITED BY 



JOHN CALVIN METCALF 
Poe Professor of English in the University of Virginia 
Author of English Literature and American Literature 



HENRY BRANTLY HANDY 
Professor of English in Richmond College 




B. F. JOHNSON PUBLISHING COMPANY 

ATLANTA RICHMOND DALLAS 



/ftp #) 



Copyright, 1919, 

BY 

B. F. JOHNSON PUBLISHING COMPANY 



S 1919 



ICLA5 1.1753 



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PREFACE 

The present volume of selections is primarily intended to 
accompany a history of American literature. Biographical matter 
has therefore been omitted, and only such notes have been added 
as seem indispensable to a clear understanding of the text. After 
the Colonial and Revolutionary periods, the selections have been 
arranged in regional groups in accordance with the plan followed 
in most briefer histories of American literature. 

Only a few short extracts from Colonial prose are given, and 
these have been chosen because they have some intrinsic literary 
merit, which, after all, is the main thing to be considered in a 
survey course in American literature, however desirable it may be 
to learn history through chronicle and diary. The development 
of the American spirit in our writers and the essentially demo- 
cratic undercurrent in our literary art, a brief anthology like this 
should reveal to the reader. The real beginnings of nationalism 
are to be found in the literature of the Revolution, particularly 
in oratory, the patriotic ballad, and the satire ; consequently, the 
selections from this period are more numerous. The temptation 
to include others has been strong, but the spatial limitations of 
this volume have compelled the editors to resist it. In the 
National period proper, beginning with Irving, the largest repre- 
sentation has naturally been given to the writings of the standard 
New England group, the most significant contribution to Amer- 
ican literature until about 1870. Since then the Southern and 
Western writers have become increasingly prominent; the space 
allotted to these two groups in the followings pages is probably 
greater than in most volumes of this size. 

Acknowledgment is due the publishers who have generously 
permitted the use of copyrighted material : Houghton Mifflin Co, 

(3) 



4 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

for selections from the writings of Hawthorne, Thoreau, Emer- 
son, Holmes, Longfellow, Whittier, Lowell, Harte, Sill, and Miss 
Murf ree ; Charles Scribner's Sons for poems of Sidney Lanier and 
Eugene Field; Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. for poems of Paul 
Hamilton Hayne ; D. Appleton & Co. for poems of William Cullen 
Bryant ; David McKay for poems of Walt Whitman ; The Bobbs- 
Merrill Co. for poems of James Whitcomb Riley; Small May- 
nard & Co. for poems of John B. Tabb ; Doubleday, Page & Co. 
for a story by O. Henry ; Harr Wagner Publishing Company for 
poems of Joaquin Miller. 

To students and readers who may use this volume we wish 
to express the hope that these selections may be supplemented by 
wider reading in the works of men and women, whether repre- 
sented here or not, who stand for the finer ideals in Amer- 
ican life. 

We cannot conclude this prefatory statement without grate- 
fully acknowledging the helpful interest of our former colleague, 
Dr. H. J. Eckenrode, of Richmond, in the preparation of this 
book. 

J. C. M. 
H. B. H. 



CONTENTS 

COLONIAL PERIOD 



PAGE 

COTTON MATHER 

The Charity of Master John Eliot ll 

WILLIAM BYRD 

The First Survey in the Dismal Swamp 14 

Colonial Dentistry l5 

JONATHAN EDWARDS 

The Young Lady in New Haven l 9 

Farewell Sermon (Extracts) 20 

THOMAS GODFREY 

The Wish M 

The Invitation 2 3 



REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD 

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 

Franklin's Early Reading 25 

The Way to Wealth 20 

PATRICK HENRY 

A Call to Arms 33 

THOMAS JEFFERSON 

Opinion of France 37 

First Inaugural Address & 

POEMS OF THE REVOLUTION 

Battle of the Kegs — Hopkinson 43 

The Ballad of Nathan Hale 40 

Columbia— Dwight 4» 

A Tory's Punishment— Trumbull 50 

(5) 



6 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

PAGE 
PHILIP FRENEAU 

The Indian Burying Ground 53 

The Wild Honeysuckle 54 

To a Honey Bee 55 

CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN 

Edgar Huntly's Indian Adventure 57 

THE KNICKERBOCKER WRITERS 
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 



The American Flag. 



68 



FITZ-GREEN HALLECK 

Death of Joseph Rodman Drake 70 

Marco Bozzaris 7 1 

WASHINGTON IRVING 

Rip Van Winkle 74 

JAMES FENIMORE COOPER 

Running the Gauntlet 92 

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 

Thanatopsis 107 

To a Waterfowl 109 

To the Fringed Gentian 1 10 

Robert of Lincoln m 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 
DANIEL WEBSTER 

First Bunker Hill Oration 114 

FRANCIS PARKMAN 

An Indian Banquet 129 

RALPH WALDO EMERSON 

Concord Hymn 141 

The Rhodora 142 

Days 142 

Forerunners 143 

Voluntaries 144 

Self-Reliance (Essay) 145 



CONTENTS ' 

PAGE 

HENRY D. THOREAU 

Solitude J 7° 

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 

The Great Stone Face *7 6 



HENRY W. LONGFELLOW 

A Psalm of Life W 

The Wreck of the Hesperus IQ 9 

The Village Blacksmith 202 

Excelsior ■ ** 

The Day Is Done 205 

Paul Revere's Ride 3#7 

Hiawatha *" 

The Republic — — -• 3 * 7 

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 

The Vision of Sir Launf al * 2 *f 

The Present Crisis ^o 

The Courtin' f« 

L'Envoi 7g 

For an Autograph ** 

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 

Skipper Ireson's Ride ^ 

The Barefoot Boy **Z 

In School-Days g 

My Playmates JL 

Snow-Bound 5y 

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 

270 

Old Ironsides 2 g 

The Deacon? Masterpiece ;' or the Wonderful One-Hoss Shav . . 2* 

The Chambered Nautilus 2g g 

A Sun-Day Hymn • • • • • • • • • • ■■•*:: o_ 

The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table (Extract) 2»7 



8 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 

PAGE 
A SHEAF OF FAMOUS LYRICS 

The Star-Spangled Banner— Key 292 

My Life Is Like the Summer Rose — Wilde 293 

A Health— Pinkney 294 

Resignation — Tucker 295 

Florence Vane — Cooke 296 

The Bivouac of the Dead— O'Hara 297 

Maryland, My Maryland — Randall 300 

Little Giffen — Ticknor 303 

EDGAR ALLAN POE 

To Helen 304 

Israfel 305 

The Raven 307 

Eldorado 31 1 

Annabel Lee 3 l % 

The Cask of Amontillado 3^3 

The Purloined Letter 321 

SIDNEY LANIER 

Song of the Chattahoochee 343 

The Marshes of Glynn 343 

Tampa Robins 347 

HENRY TIMROD 

The Cotton Boll 348 

Magnolia Cemetery Ode 353 

Spring 354 

PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 

The Mocking Bird 356 

Aspects of the Pines 357 

The Will and the Wing 358 

A Dream of the South Winds 359 



MINOR POETS 
ABRAM J. RYAN 

The Sword of Lee 360 

JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON 

Music in Camp 362 

Carcassonne !!!!!!!! 364 



CONTENTS 9 

PAGE 
JOHN BANISTER TABB 

Trysting-Place 366 

Intimations 367 

Kildee 367 

MADISON CAWEIN 

The Whippoorwill 368 

Evening on the Farm 369 

PROSE WRITERS 

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 

The Attack on the Blockhouse 371 

JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY 

The Master and Mistress of Swallow Barn 384 

JOHN ESTEN COOKE 

An Incident at Governor Fauquier's Ball 391 

HENRY WOODFIN GRADY 

The New South 407 

GEORGE WASHINGTON CABLE 

New Orleans Before the Capture 415 

JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 

Mr. Rabbit Grossly Deceives Mr. Fox 421 

MARY NOAILLES MURFREE 

The Gander-Pulling 424 

JAMES LANE ALLEN 

Hemp 430 

THOMAS NELSON PAGE 

The Old Virginia Lawyer 436 

WILLIAM SIDNEY PORTER 

The Gift of the Magi 444 



10 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

WRITERS OF MIDDLE AND WESTERN STATES 

PAGE 
ABRAHAM LINCOLN 

Gettysburg Speech 45 1 

WALT WHITMAN 

O Captain, My Captain 452 

As Toilsome I Wandered Virginia's Woods 453 

When Lilacs Last in the Door-Yard Bloomed 453 

BAYARD TAYLOR 

Bedouin Song 458 

SAMUEL LANGHORNE CLEMENS 

The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County 459 

BRET HARTE 

Tennessee's Partner 466 

EDWARD ROWLAND SILL 

The Fool's Prayer 476 

EUGENE FIELD 

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod 478 

Little Boy Blue 479 

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 

When She Comes Home 480 

A Life Lesson 481 

JOAQUIN MILLER 

Westward Ho 482 

Columbus 483 

Notes 485 



READINGS IN 

AMERICAN LITERATURE 

THE COLONIAL PERIOD 



COTTON MATHER 
Born in Boston, Mass., 1663 ; died there, 1728 

THE CHARITY OF MASTER JOHN ELIOT 

From Magnolia Christi Americana 

He that will write of Eliot must write of charity, or say noth- 
ing. His charity was a star of the first magnitude in the bright 
constellation of his virtues, and the rays of it were wonderfully 
various and extensive. 

His liberality to pious uses, whether public or private, went 5 
much beyond the proportions of his little estate in the world. 
Many hundreds of pounds did he freely bestow upon the poor; 
and he would, with a very forcible importunity, press his neigh- 
bors to join with him in such beneficences. It was a marvellous, 
alacrity with which he embraced all opportunities of relieving any 10 
that were miserable ; and the good people of Roxbury doubtless 
cannot remember (but the righteous God will !) how often, and 
with what ardors, with what arguments, he became a beggar to 
them for collections in their assemblies, to support such needy 
objects as had fallen under his observation. The poor counted *5 
him their father, and repaired still unto him with a filial confi- 
dence in their necessities; and they were more than seven or 
eight, or indeed than so many scores, who received their portions 
of his bounty. Like that worthy and famous English general, he 
could not persuade himself "that fie had anything but what he 20 
gave away," But fie drove a mighty trade at such exercises as he 

(U) 



12 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

thought would furnish him with bills of exchange, which he 
hoped "after many days" to find the comfort of; and yet, after 
all, he would say, like one of the most charitable souls that ever 
lived in the world, "that looking over his accounts he could 
5 nowhere find the God of heaven charged a debtor there." He 
did not put off his charity to be put in his last will, as many who 
therein show that their charity is against their will; but he was 
his own administrator; he made his own hands his executors, 
and his own eyes his overseers. It has been remarked that liberal 

1 o men are often long-lived men ; so do they after many days find 

the bread with which they have been willing to keep other men 
alive. The great age of our Eliot was but agreeable to this 
remark ; and when his age had unfitted him for almost all employ- 
ments, and bereaved him of those gifts and parts which once he 
15 had been accomplished with, being asked, "How he did?" he 
would sometimes answer, "Alas, I have lost everything; my 
understanding leaves me, my memory fails me, my utterance fails 
me; but, I thank God, my charity holds out still; I find that 
rather grows than fails!" And I make no question that at his 

2 o death his happy soul was received and welcomed into the "ever- 

lasting habitations," by many scores, got thither before him, of 
such as his charity had been liberal unto. 

But besides these more substantial expressions of his charity, 
he made the odors of that grace yet more fragrant unto all that 

2 5 were about him, by that pitifulness and that peaceableness which 

rendered him yet further amiable. If any of his neighborhood 
were in distress, he was like a "brother born for their adversity" ; 
he would visit them, and comfort them with a most fraternal 
sympathy; yea, 'tis not easy to recount how many whole days of 

3 o prayer and fasting he has got his neighbors to keep with him, on 

the behalf of those whose calamities he found himself touched 
withal. It was an extreme satisfaction to him that his wife had 
attained unto a considerable skill in physic and surgery, which 
enabled her to dispense many safe, good, and useful medicines 



10 



15 



THE COLONIAL PERIOD 13 

unto the poor that had occasion for them; and some hundreds 
of sick and weak and maimed people owed praises to God for the 
benefit which therein they freely received of her. The good 
gentleman her husband would still be casting oil into the flame 
of that charity, wherein she was of her own accord abundantly 
forward thus to be doing of good unto all ; and he would urge 
her to be serviceable unto the worst enemies that he had in the 
world. Never had any man fewer enemies than he ! but once 
having delivered something in his ministry which displeased one 
of his hearers, the man did passionately abuse him for it, and 
this both with speeches and with writings that reviled him. Yet 
it happening not long after that this man gave himself a very 
dangerous wound, Mr. Eliot immediately sends his wife to cure 
him ; who did accordingly. When the man was well, he came to 
thank her, but she took no rewards ; and this good man made him 
stay and eat with him, taking no notice of all the calumnies with 
which he had loaded him— but by this carriage he mollified and 
conquered the stomach of his reviler. 

He was also a great enemy to all contention, and would ring 
aloud curfew bell wherever he saw the fires of animosity. When 2 
he heard any ministers complain that such and such in their flocks 
were too difficult for them, the strain of his answer still was, 
"Brother, compass them!" and "Brother, learn the meaning of 
those three little words, bear, forbear, forgive." Yea, his inclina- 
tions for peace, indeed, sometimes almost made him to sacrifice 25 
right itself. When there was laid before an assembly of ministers 
a bundle of papers which contained certain matters of difference 
and contention between some people which our Eliot thought 
should rather unite, with an amnesty u£on all their former 
quarrels, he (with some imitation of what Constantine did upon 
the like occasion) hastily threw the papers into the fire before 
them all, and, with a zeal for peace as hot as that fire, said imme- 
diately, "Brethren, wonder not at what I have done;^I did it on 
my knees this morning before I came among you." Such an 



bO 



14 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

excess (if it were one) flowed from his charitable inclinations to 
be found among those peace-makers which, by following the 
example of that Man who is our peace, come to be called "the 
children of God." Very worthily might he be called an Irenaeus, 
6 as being all for peace ; and the commendation which Epiphanius 
gives unto the ancient of that name did belong unto our Eliot ; he 
was "a most blessed and a most holy man." He disliked all sorts 
of bravery ; but yet with an ingenious note upon the Greek word in 
Colossians iii. 15, he propounded, "that peace might brave it 

10 among us." In short, wherever he came, it was like another old 
John, with solemn and earnest persuasives to love ; and when he 
could say little else he would give that charge, "My children, love 
one another!" 

Finally, 'twas his charity which disposed him to continual 

15 apprecations for, and benedictions on those that he met withal; 
he had an heart full of good wishes and a mouth full of kind 
blessings for them. And he often made his expressions very 
wittily agreeable to the circumstances which he saw the persons 
in. Sometimes when he came into a family, he would call for all 

2 the young people in it, that so he might very distinctly lay his 
holy hands upon every one of them and bespeak the mercies of 
heaven for them all. 



WILLIAM BYRD 

Born at Westover, on the James River, Virginia, 1674 ; died there, 1744 

THE FIRST SURVEY IN THE DISMAL SWAMP 

From The History of the Dividing Line 
It seems they were able to carry the line this day no further 
than one mile and sixty-one poles, and that whole distance was 
2 5 through a miry cedar bog, where the ground trembled under their 
feet most frightfully. In many places, too, their passage was 
retarded by a great number of fallen trees, that lay horsing upon 
one another. 



10 



THE COLONIAL PERIOD 15 

Though many circumstances occurred to make this an 
unwholesome situation, yet the poor men had no time to be 
sick, nor can one conceive a more calamitous case than it would 
have been to be laid up in that uncomfortable quagmire. Never 
were patients more tractable, or willing to take physic, than these 
honest fellows ; but it was from a dread of laying their bones in 
a bog that would spew them up again. That consideration also 
put them upon more caution about their lodging. 

They first covered the ground with square pieces of cypress 
bark, which now, in the spring, they could easily slip off the tree 
for that purpose. On this they spread their bedding ; but unhap- 
pily the weight and warmth of their bodies made the water rise 
up betwixt the joints of the bark, to their great inconvenience. 
Thus they lay not only moist, but also exceedingly cold, because 
their fires were continually going out. For no sooner was the !6 
trash upon the surface burnt away, but immediately the fire was 
extinguished by the moisture of the soil, insomuch that it was 
great part of the sentinel's business to rekindle it again in a 
fresh place every quarter of an hour. Nor could they indeed do 
their duty better, because cold was the only enemy they had to 2 
guard against in a miserable morass, where nothing can inhabit. 

We could get no tidings yet of our brave adventurers, not- 
withstanding we dispatched men to the likeliest stations to inquire 
after them. They were still scuffling in the mire, and could not 
possibly forward the line this whole day more than one mile and 25 
sixty-four chains. Every step of this day's work was through 
a cedar bog, where the trees were somewhat smaller and grew 
more into a thicket. It was now a great misfortune to the men 
to find their provisions grow less as their labor grew greater; 
they were all forced to come to short allowance, and conse- 30 
quently to work hard without filling their bellies. Though this 
was very severe upon English stomachs, yet- the people were so 
far from being discomfited at it that they still kept up their 
good-humor, and merrily told a young fellow in the company, 



READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

who looked very plump and wholesome, that he must expect to 
go first to pot, if matters should come to extremity. 

This was only said by way of jest, yet it made him thoughtful 
in earnest. However, for the present he returned them a very 
5 civil answer, letting them know that, dead or alive, he should be 
glad to be useful to such worthy good friends. But, after all, 
this humorous saying had one very good effect, for that younker, 
who before was a little inclined by his constitution to be lazy, 
grew on a sudden extremely industrious, that so there might 
10 be less occasion to carbonade him for the good of his fellow- 
travelers. 
******* 

The surveyors and their attendants began now in good earnest 
to be alarmed with apprehensions of famine, nor could they 

I 5 forbear looking with some sort of appetite upon a dog that had 
been the faithful companion of their travels. 

Their provisions were now near exhausted. They had this 
morning made the last distribution, that so each might husband 
his small pittance as he pleased. Now it was that the fresh- 

2 colored young man began to tremble every joint of him, having 
dreamed the night before that the Indians were about to barbecue 
him over live coals. 

The prospect of famine determined the people at last, with 
one consent, to abandon the line for the present, which advanced 

25 but slowly, and make the best of their way to firm land. Accord- 
ingly, they sat off very early, and, by the help of the compass 
which they carried along with them, steered a direct westerly 
course. They marched from morning till night, and computed 
their journey to amount to about four miles, which was a great 

30 way, considering the difficulties of the ground. It was all along 
a cedar-swamp, so dirty and perplexed that if they had not 
traveled for their lives they could not have reached so far. 

On their way they espied a turkey-buzzard, that flew pro- 
digeously high to get above the noisome exhalations that ascend 



THE COLONIAL PERIOD 17] 

from thai filthy place. This they were willing to understand as 
a good omen, according to the superstition of the ancients, who 
had great faith in the flight of vultures. However, after all this 
tedious journey, they could yet discover no end of their toil, 
which made them very pensive, especially after they had eat 6 
the last morsel of their provisions. But to their unspeakable 
comfort, when all was hushed in the evening, they heard the 
cattle low and the dogs bark very distinctly, which, to men in 
that distress, was more delightful music than Faustina or Fari- 
nelli could have made. In the meantime, the commissioners could 10 
get no news of them from any of their visitors, who assembled 
from every point of the compass. 

However long we might think the time, yet we were cautious 
of showing our uneasiness, for fear of mortifying our landlord. 
He had done his best for us, and, therefore, we were unwilling 15 
he should think us dissatisfied with our entertainment. In the 
midst of our concern, we were most agreeably surprised, just 
after dinner, with the news that the Dismalites were all safe. 
These blessed tidings were brought to us by Mr. Swan, the 
Carolina surveyor, who came to us in a very tattered condition. 20 

After very short salutations, we got about him as if he had 
been a Hottentot, and begun to inquire into his adventures. He 
gave us a detail of their uncomfortable voyage through the 
Dismal, and told us, particularly, they had pursued their journey 
early that morning, encouraged by the good omen of seeing the 25 
crows fly over their heads ; that, after an hour's march over very 
rotten ground, they, on a sudden, began to find themselves among 
tall pines that grew in the water, which in many places was 
knee-deep. This pine swamp, into which that of Coropeak 
drained itself, extended near a mile in breadth; and though it 3 
was exceedingly wet, yet it was much harder at bottom than the 
rest of the swamp ; that about ten in the morning they recovered 
firm land, which they embraced with as much pleasure as ship- 
wrecked wretches do the shore. 



18 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

After these honest adventurers had congratulated each other's 
deliverance, their first inquiry was for a good house, where they 
might satisfy the importunity of their stomachs. Their good 
genius directed them to Mr. Brinkley's, who dwells a little to 
5 the southward of the line. This man began immediately to be 
very inquisitive, but they declared they had no spirits to answer 
questions till after dinner. 

COLONIAL DENTISTRY 

From A Journey to the Land of Eden 

Major Mayo's survey being no more than halfdone, we were 
obliged to amuse ourselves another day in this place. And that 

10 the time might not be quite lost, we put our garments and 
baggage into good repair. I, for my part, never spent a day so 
well during the whole voyage. I had an impertinent tooth in my 
upper jaw that had been loose for some time and made me chew 
with great caution. Particularly, I could not grind a biscuit but 

15 with much deliberation and presence of mind. Tooth-drawers 
we had none amongst us, nor any of the instruments they make 
use of. However, invention supplied this want very happily, 
and I contrived to get rid of this troublesome companion by 
cutting a caper. I caused a twine to be fastened round the root 

2 of my tooth, about a fathom in length, and then tied the other 
end to the snag of a log that lay upon the ground, in such a 
manner that I could just stand upright. Having adjusted my 
string in this manner, I bent my knees enough to enable me to 
spring vigorously off the ground, as perpendicularly as I could. 

2 5 The force of the leap drew out the tooth with so much ease that 

I felt nothing of it, nor should have believed it was come away, 
unless I had seen it dangling at the end of the string. An 
undertooth may be fetched out by standing off the ground and 
fastening your string at due distance above you. And having 

3 so fixed your gear, jump off your standing, and the weight of 



THE COLONIAL PERIOD 19 

your body, added to the force of the spring, will prize out your 
tooth with less pain than any operator upon earth could draw it. 
This new way of tooth-drawing, being so silently and deliber- 
ately performed, both surprised and delighted all that were 
present, who could not guess what I was going about. I imme- 
diately found the benefit of getting rid of this troublesome com - 
panion by eating my supper with more comfort than I had done 
during the whole expedition. 



JONATHAN EDWARDS 
Born in East Windsor, Conn., 1703 ; died in Princeton, N. J., 1758 

THE YOUNG LADY IN NEW HAVEN 

They say there is a young lady in New Haven who is beloved 
of that Great Being who made and rules the world, and that there 
are certain seasons in which this Great Being, in some way or 
other invisible, comes to her and fills her mind with exceeding 
sweet delight, and that she hardly cares for anything except to 
meditate on Him — that she expects after a while to be received 
up where He is, to be raised up out of the world and caught up 
into heaven ; being assured that He loves her too well to let her 
remain at a distance from Him always. There she is to dwell 
with Him, and to be ravished with His love and delight forever. 
Therefore, if you present all the world before her, with the 
richest of its treasures, she disregards and cares not for it, and 
is unmindful of any pain or affliction. She has a strange sweet- 
ness in her mind and singular purity in her affections ; is most 
just and conscientious in all her conduct; and you could not 
persuade her to do anything wrong or sinful, if you would give 
her all the world, lest she should offend this Great Being. She 
is of a wonderful sweetness, calmness and universal benevolence 
of mind, especially after this great God has manifested Himself 
to her mind. She will sometimes go about from place to place 



20 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

singing sweetly, and seems to be always full of joy and pleasure ; 
and no one knows for what. She loves to be alone, walking in 
the fields and groves, and seems to have some one invisible 
always conversing with her. 

FAREWELL SERMON 

(Extracts) 

Your consciences bear me witness that while I had oppor- 
tunity I have not ceased to warn you, and set before you your 
danger. I have studied to represent the misery and necessity of 
your circumstances in the clearest manner possible. I have 
tried all ways that I could think of tending to awaken your 
consciences, and make you sensible of the necessity of your 
improving your time, and being speedy in flying from the wrath 
to come, and thorough in the use of means for your escape and 
safety. I have diligently endeavored to find out and use the 
most powerful motives to persuade you to take care for your 
own welfare and salvation. I have not only endeavored to 
awaken you, that you might be moved with fear, but I have used 
my utmost endeavors to win you: I have sought out acceptable 
words, that, if possible, I might prevail upon you to forsake sin, 
and turn to God, and accept of Christ as your Saviour and Lord. 
I have spent my strength very much in these things. But yet, 
with regard to you whom I am now speaking to, I have not 
been successful; but have this day reason to complain in those 
words, Jer vi. 29 : "The bellows are burnt, the lead is consumed 
of the fire, the founder melteth in vain, for the wicked are not 
plucked away." It is to be feared that all my labors, as to many 
of you, have served no other purpose but to harden you, and 
that the word which I have preached, instead of being a savor 
of life unto life, has been a savor of death unto death. Though 
I shall not have any account to give for the future of such as 
have openly and resolutely renounced my ministry as of a betrust- 
ment committed to me, yet remember you must give account for 



THE COLONIAL PERIOD 21 

yourselves, of your care of your own souls, and your improve- 
ment of all means past and future, through your whole lives. 
God only knows what will become of your poor perishing souls, 
what means you may hereafter enjoy, or what disadvantages and 
temptations you may be under. May God in His mercy grant 5 
that, however all past means have been unsuccessful, you may 
have future means which may have a new effect; and that the 
word of God, as it shall be hereafter dispensed to you, may prove 
as the fire and the hammer that breaketh the rock in pieces. 
However, let me now at parting exhort and beseech you not 10 
wholly to forget the warnings you have had while under my 
ministry. When you and I shall meet at the day of judgment, 
then you will remember them: the sight of me, your former 
minister, on that occasion, will soon revive them to your memory, 
and that in a very affecting manner. O do not let that be the 15 
first time that they are so revived ! 

You and I are now parting one from another as to this world ; 
let us labor that we may not be parted after our meeting at the 
last day. If I have been your faithful pastor (which will that 
day appear whether I have or no), then I shall be acquitted, and 20 
shall ascend with Christ. O do your part that, in such a case, 
it may not be so that you should be forced eternally to part from 
me, and all that have been faithful in Christ Jesus ! This is a 
sorrowful parting that now is between you and me, but that 
would be a more sorrowful parting to you than this. This you 2 5 
may perhaps bear without being much affected with it, if you 
are not glad of it; but such a parting in that day will most 

deeply, sensibly, and dreadfully affect you. 
******* 

Having briefly mentioned these important articles of advice, 3 
nothing remains, but that I now take my leave of you and bid 
you all farewell; wishing and praying for your best prosperity. 
I would now commend your immortal souls to Him who formerly 
committed them to me, expecting the day when I must meet you 



22 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

before Him, who is the Judge of quick and dead. I desire that 
I may never forget this people, who have been so long my special 
charge, and that I may never cease fervently to pray for your 
prosperity. May God bless you with a faithful pastor, one that 
5 is well acquainted with his mind and will, thoroughly warning 
sinners, wisely and skillfully searching professors, and conduct- 
ing you in the way to eternal blessedness. May you have truly 
a burning and shining light set up in this candlestick; and may 
you, not only for a season but during his whole life, and that 
10 a long life, be willing to rejoice in his light. 

THOMAS GODFREY 
Born in Philadelphia, 1736; died in North Carolina, 1763 

THE WISH 

I only ask a moderate fate, 
And, though not in obscurity, 
I would not, yet, be placed too high ; 
Between the two extremes I'd be, 
i 5 Not meanly low, nor yet too great, 

From both contempt and envy free. 

If no glittering wealth I have, 

Content of bounteous heaven I crave, 

For that is more 
2 Than all the Indian's shining store, 

To be unto the dust a slave. 

With heart, my little I will use, 

Nor let pain my life devour, 

Or for a griping heir refuse 
: » Myself one pleasant hour. 

No stately edifice to rear; 
My wish would bound a small retreat, 



THE COLONIAL PERIOD 23 

In temperate air, and furnished neat : 

No ornaments would I prepare, 

No costly labors of the loom 

Should e'er adorn my humble room ; 

To gild my roof I naught require 5 

But the stern Winter's friendly fire. 

Free from tumultuous cares and noise, 
If gracious Heaven my wish would give, 
While sweet content augments my joys, 
Thus my remaining hours I'd live. 1 ° 

By arts ignoble never rise, 
The miser's ill-got wealth despise ; 
But blest my leisure hours I'd spend, 
The Muse enjoying, and my friend. 

THE INVITATION 
Haste, Sylvia, haste, my charming maid! 15 

Let's leave these fashionable toys : 
Let's seek the shelter of some shade, 

And revel in ne'er fading joys. 
See, Spring in liv'ry gay appears, 

And winter's chilly blasts are fled ; 2 

Each grove its leafy honors rears, 

And meads their lovely verdure spread. 



Yes, Damon, glad I'll quit the town ; 

Its gaieties now languid seem: 
Then sweets t© luxury unknown 

We'll taste, and sip th' untainted stream. 
In Summer's sultry noon-tide heat 

I'll lead thee to the shady grove, 
There hush thy cares, or pleas'd repeat 

Those vows that won my soul to love. 



25 



24 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

When o'er the mountain peeps the dawn, 

And round her ruddy beauties play, 
I'll wake my love to view the lawn, 

Or hear the warblers hail the day. 
5 But without thee the rising morn 

In vain awakes the cooling breeze ; 
In vain does nature's face adorn — 

Without my Sylvia nought can please. 

At night, when universal gloom 

1 ° Hides the bright prospects from our view, 

When the gay groves give up their bloom 
And verdant meads their lovely hue, 

Tho' fleeting spectres round me move, 
When in thy circling arms I'm prest, 
15 I'll hush my rising fears with love, 

And sink in slumber on thy breast. 

The new-blown rose, whilst on its leaves 

Yet the bright scented dew-drop's found 
Pleas'd on thy bosom whilst it heaves, 

2 ° Shall shake its heav'nly fragrance round. 

Then mingled sweets the sense shall raise, 
Then mingled beauties catch the eye : 

What pleasure on such charms to gaze, 
What rapture 'mid such sweets to lie ! 

2 5 How sweet thy words ! But, Damon, cease, 

Nor strive to fix me ever here ; 
Too well you know these accents please, 

That oft have fill'd my ravish'd ear. 
Come, lead me to these promis'd joys 
3 ° That dwelt so lately on thy tongue ; 

Direct me by thy well-known voice, 
And calm my transports with thy song ! 



THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD 25 

THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD 



BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 
Born in Boston, 1706; died in Philadelphia, 1790 

FRANKLIN'S EARLY READING 

From a child I was fond of reading, and all the little money 
that came into my hands was ever laid out in books. Pleased 
with the Pilgrim's Progress, my first collection was of John 
Bunyan's works in separate little volumes. I afterward sold 
them to enable me to buy R. Burton's Historical Collections; 5 
they were small chapmen's books, and cheap, forty or fifty in 
all. My father's little library consisted chiefly of books in 
polemic divinity, most of which I read, and have since often 
regretted that, at a time when I had such a thirst for knowledge, 
more proper books had not fallen in my way, since it was now 10 
resolved I should not be a clergyman. Plutarch's Lives there 
was, in which I read abundantly, and I still think that time spent 
to great advantage. There was also a book of De Foe's, called 
an Essay on Projects, and another of Dr. Mather's, called Essays 
to Do Good, which perhaps gave me a turn of thinking that had 15 
an influence on some of the principal future events of my life. 

This bookish inclination at length determined my father to 
make me a printer, though he had already one son (James) of 
that profession. In 1717 my brother James returned from 
England with a press and letters to set up his business in Boston. 2 
I liked it much better than that of my father, but still had a 
hankering for the sea. To prevent the apprehended effect of 
such an inclination, my father was impatient to have me bound 
to my brother. I stood out some time, but at last was persuaded, 
and signed the indentures when I was yet but twelve years old. 25 
I was to serve as an apprentice till I was twenty-one years of age, 
only I was to be allowed journeyman's wages during the last year. 



26 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

In a little time I made great proficiency in the business and 
became a useful hand to my brother. I now had access to better 
books. An acquaintance with the apprentices of booksellers 
enabled me sometimes to borrow a small one, which I was careful 
5 to return soon and clean. Often I sat up in my room reading the 
greatest part of the night, when the book was borrowed in the 
evening and to be returned early in the morning, lest it should 
be missed or wanted. 

And after some time an ingenious tradesman, Mr. Matthew 

1 ° Adams, who had a pretty collection of books and who frequented 
our printing-house, took notice of me, invited me to his library, 
and very kindly lent me such books as I chose to read. I now 
took a fancy to poetry, and made some little pieces ; my brother, 
thinking it might turn to account, encouraged me and put me on 

!5 composing occasional ballads. One was called The Lighthouse 
Tragedy, and contained an account of the drowning of Captain 
Worthilake, with his two daughters ; the other was a sailor's song, 
on the taking of Teach (or Blackbeard), the pirate. They were 
wretched stuff, in the Grub Street ballad style; and when they 

20 were printed he sent me about the town to sell them. The first 
sold wonderfully, the event being recent, having made a great 
noise. This flattered my vanity ; but my father discouraged me 
by ridiculing my performances and telling me verse-makers were 
generally beggars. So I escaped being a poet, most probably a 

25 very bad one; but as prose writing has been of great use to me 
in the course of my life and was a principal means of my 
advancement, I shall tell you how, in such a situation, I acquired 
what little ability I have in that way. 

There was another bookish lad in the town, John Collins by 

30 name, with whom I was intimately acquainted. We sometimes 
disputed, and very fond we were of argument and very desirous 
of confuting one another, which disputatious turn, by the way, is 
apt to become a very bad habit, making people often extremely 
disagreeable in company by the contradiction that is necessary to 



THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD 27 

bring it into practice; and thence, besides souring and spoiling 
the conversation, is productive of disgusts and perhaps enmities 
where you may have occasion for friendship. I had caught it 
by reading my father's books of dispute about religion. Persons 
of good sense, I have since observed, seldom fall into it, except 5 
lawyers, university men, and men of all sorts that have been bred 
at Edinburgh. 

A question was once, somehow or other, started between 
Collins and me of the propriety of educating the female sex in 
learning, and their abilities for study. He was of opinion that 10 
it was improper, and that they were naturally unequal to it. I 
took the contrary side, perhaps a little for dispute's sake. He 
was naturally more eloquent, had a ready plenty of words ; and 
sometimes, as I thought, bore me down more by his fluency than 
by the strength of his reasons. As we parted without settling 15 
the point and were not to see one another again for some time, I 
sat down to put my arguments in writing, which I copied fair 
and sent to him. He answered, and I replied. Three or four 
letters of a side had passed, when my father happened to find 
my papers and read them. Without entering into the discus- 2 
sion, he took occasion to talk to me about the manner of my 
writing; observed that, though I had the advantage of my 
antagonist in correct spelling and pointing (which I owed to the 
printing-house), I fell far short in elegance of expression, in 
method, and in perspicuity, of which he convinced me by several 2 5 
instances. I saw the justice of his remarks, and thence grew 
more attentive to the manner in writing and determined to 
endeavor at improvement. 

About this time I met with an odd volume of the Spectator. 
It was the third. I had never before seen any of them. I 3 
bought it, read it over and over, and was much delighted with 
it. I thought the writing excellent and wished, if possible, to 
imitate it. With this view I took some of the papers, and, 
making short hints of the sentiment in each sentence, laid them 



28 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

by a few days, and then, without looking at the book, tried to 
complete the papers again, by expressing each hinted sentiment 
at length and as fully as it had been expressed before, in any 
suitable words that should come to hand. Then I compared 
5 my Spectator with the original, discovered some of my faults, 
and corrected them. But I found I wanted a stock of words, or 
a readiness in recollecting and using them, which I thought I 
should have acquired before that time if I had gone on making 
verses ; since the continual occasion for words of the same import, 

10 but of different length, to suit the measure, or of different sound 
for the rhyme, would have laid me under a constant necessity of 
searching for variety, and also have tended to fix that variety in 
my mind and make me master of it. Therefore, I took some of 
the tales and turned them into verse; and, after a time, when I 

15 had pretty well forgotten the prose, turned them back again. I 
also sometimes jumbled my collections of hints into confusion, 
and after some weeks endeavored to reduce them into the best 
order' before I began to form the full sentences 4 and complete the 
paper. This was to teach me method in the arrangement of 

2 thoughts. By comparing my work afterward with the original, 
I discovered many faults and amended them; but I sometimes 
had the pleasure of fancying that, in certain particulars of small 
import, I had been lucky enough to improve the method or the 
language, and this encouraged me to think I might possibly in 

2 5 time come to be a tolerable English writer, of which I was 

extremely ambitious. My time for these exercises and for 
reading was at night, after work, or before it began in the 
morning, or on Sundays, when I contrived to be in the printing- 
house alone, evading as much as I could the common attendance 

3 on public worship which my father used to exact of me when I 

was under his care, and which indeed I still thought a duty, 
though I could not, as it seemed to me, afford time to practice it. 



THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD 29 

THE WAY TO WEALTH 

Courteous Reader: I have heard that nothing gives an 
author so great pleasure as to find his works respectfully quoted 
by other learned authors. This pleasure I have seldom enjoyed ; 
for, though I have been, if I may say it without vanity, an 
eminent author (of almanacs), annually, now a full quarter of a 5 
century, my brother authors in the same way, for what reason I 
know not, have ever been very sparing in their applause and no 
other author has taken the least notice of me; so that, did not 
my writings produce me some solid pudding, the great deficiency 
of praise would have quite discouraged me. 1 ° 

I concluded at length that the people were the best judges 
of my merit, for they buy my works ; and, besides, in my rambles 
where I am not personally known, I have frequently heard one 
or other of my adages repeated with "As Poor Richard says" at 
the end of it. This gave me some satisfaction, as it showed not 15 
only that my instructions were regarded, but discovered likewise 
some respect for my authority ; and I own that, to encourage the 
practice of remembering and reading those wise sentences, I have 
sometimes quoted myself with great gravity. 

Judge, then, how much I must have been gratified by an 2 
incident I am going to relate to you. I stopped my horse lately 
where a great number of people were collected at an auction oi 
merchants' goods. The hour of the sale not being come, they 
were conversing on the badness of the times; and one of the 
company called to a plain, clean old man with white locks, "Pray, 2 5 
Father Abraham, what think you of the times? Will not these 
heavy taxes quite ruin the country ? How shall we ever be able 
to pay them? What would you advise us to do?" Father 
Abraham stood up and replied, "If you would have my advice, 
I will give it to you in short ; for A word to the wise is enough, 
as Poor Richard says." They joined in desiring him to speak 
his mind, and gathering around him, he proceeded as follows : 



30 



30 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

"Friends," said he, "the taxes are indeed very heavy, and if 
those laid on by the government were the only ones we had to 
pay, we might more easily discharge them; but we have many 
others, and much more grievous to some of us. We are taxed 
5 twice as much by our idleness, three times as much by our pride, 
and four times as much by our folly; and from these taxes the 
commissioners cannot ease or deliver us by allowing an abate- 
ment. However, let us hearken to good advice, and something 
may be done for us; God helps them that help themselves, as 

10 Poor Richard says. 

I. "It would be thought a hard government that should tax its 
people one-tenth part of their time, to be employed in its service ; 
but idleness taxes many of us much more ; sloth, by bringing on 
diseases, absolutely shortens life. Sloth, like rust, consumes 

15 faster than labor wears, while The used key is always bright, as 
Poor Richard says. But dost thou love life? Then do not 
squander time, for that is the stuff life is made of, as Poor 
Richard says. How much more than is necessary do we spend 
in sleep, forgetting that the sleeping fox catches no poultry, and 

20 that there will be sleeping enough in the grave, as Poor Richard 
says. If time be of all things the most precious, wasting time 
must be, as Poor Richard says, the greatest prodigality ; since, 
as he elsewhere tells us, Lost time is never found again, and what 
we call time enough always proves little enough. Let us, then, 

25 be up and be doing, and doing to the purpose; so by diligence 
shall we do more with less perplexity. Sloth makes all things 
difficult, but industry, all easy; and, He that riseth late must trot 
all day and shall scarce overtake his business at night; while 
Laziness travels so slowly that Poverty soon overtakes him. 

30 Drive thy business, let not that drive thee; and, Early to bed, 
and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise, as 
Poor Richard says. 

"So what signifies wishing and hoping for better times ? We 
make these times better if we bestir ourselves. Industry need 



THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD 31 

not wish, and he that lives upon hopes will die fasting. There 
are no gains without pains ; then help, hands, for I have no lands ; 
or, if I have, they are smartly taxed. He that hath a trade hath 
an estate ; and he that hath a calling, hath an office of profit and 
honor, as Poor Richard says ; but then the trade must be worked 5 
at and the calling followed, or neither the estate nor the office 
will enable us to pay our taxes. If we are industrious, we shall 
never starve; for, At the workingman's house hunger looks in, 
but dares not enter. Nor will the bailiff or the constable enter ; 
for Industry pays debts, while Despair increaseth them. What 10 
though you have found no treasure, nor has any rich relation left 
you a legacy; Diligence is the mother of good luck, and God 
gives all things to Industry. Then plow deep while sluggards 
sleep, and you shall have corn to sell and to keep. Work while 
it is called to-day, for you know not how much you may be 15 
hindered to-morrow. One to-day is worth two to-morrows, as 
Poor Richard says ; and, further, Never leave that till to-morrow 
which you can do to-day. If you were a good servant, would 
you not be ashamed that a good master should catch you idle? 
Are you, then, your own master? Be ashamed to catch yourself 2 
idle, when there is so much to be done for yourself, your family, 
your country, your kin. Handle your tools without mittens; 
remember that The cat in gloves catches no mice, as Poor Richard 
says. It is true there is much to be done, and perhaps you are 
weak-handed; but stick to it steadily, and you will see great 2 5 
effects; for, Constant dropping wears away stones; and, By 
diligence and patience the mouse ate in two the cable ; and, Little 
strokes fell great oaks. 

"Methinks I hear some of you say, Must a man afford himself 
no leisure? I will tell thee, my friend, what Poor Richard says : 30 
Employ thy time well, if thou meanest to gain leisure ; and since 
thou art not sure of a minute, throw not away an hour. Leisure 
is time for doing something useful ; this leisure the diligent man 
will obtain, but the lazy man never; for, A life of leisure and a 



32 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

life of laziness are two things. Many, without labor, would 
live by their wits only, but they break for want of stock ; whereas 
industry gives comfort and plenty and respect. Fly pleasures 
and they will follow you. The diligent spinner has a large 
5 shift; and now I have a sheep and a cow, every one bids me 
good morrow. 

II. "But with our industry we must likewise be steady and 
careful, and oversee our own affairs with our own eyes, and not 
trust too much to others ; for, as Poor Richard says : 

10 I never saw an oft-removed tree, 

Nor yet an oft-removed family, 
That throve so well as those that settled be. 

And again, Three removes are as bad as a fire; and again, Keep 
thy shop, and thy shop will keep thee; and again, If you would 
1 5 have your business done, go ; if not, send ; and again : 

He that by the plow would thrive, 
Himself must either hold or drive. 

And again, The eye of the master will do more work than both 
his hands; and again, Want of care does us more damage than 

2 want of knowledge; and again, Not to oversee workmen is to 
leave them your purse open. Trusting too much to others' care 
is the ruin of many ; for, In the affairs of this world men are saved, 
not by faith, but by the want of it. But a man's own care is 
profitable; for, If you would have a faithful servant and one 

25 that you like, serve yourself. A little neglect may breed great 
mischief; for want of a nail the shoe was lost, for want of a 
shoe the horse was lost, and for want of a horse the rider was 
lost, being overtaken and slain by the enemy ; all for want of a 
lictle care about a horseshoe nail. 

30 III. "So much for industry, my friends, and attention to one's 
own business; but to these we must add frugality, if we would 
make our industry more certainly successful. A man may, if 



THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD 33 

he knows not how to save as he gets, keep his nose all his life 
to the grindstone, and die not worth a groat at last. A fat 
kitchen makes a lean will ; and 

Many estates are spent in the getting, 

Since women forsook spinning and knitting, 5 

And men for punch forsook hewing and splitting. 

If you would be wealthy, think of saving as well as of getting. 
The Indies have not made Spain rich, because her outgoes are 
greater than her incomes. 

"Away, then, with your expensive follies, and you will not 10 
then have so much cause to complain of hard times, heavy taxes, 
and chargeable families ; for 

Pleasure and wine, game and deceit, 

Make the wealth small, and the want great. 

And further, What maintains one vice would bring up two 15 
children. You may think, perhaps, that a little tea or a little 
punch now and then, diet a little more costly, clothes a little finer, 
and a little entertainment now and then can be no great matter ; 
but remember, Many a little makes a mickle. Beware of little 
expenses; A small leak will sink a great ship, as Poor Richard 2 
says; and again, Who dainties love shall beggars prove; and 
moreover. Fools make feasts and wise men eat them. 



PATRICK HENRY 
Born at Studley, Va., 1736; died at Red Hill, Va., 179S 

A CALL TO ARMS 

No man thinks more highly than I do of the patriotism, as 
well as the abilities* of the very worthy gentlemen who have just 
addressed the House. But different men often see the same 2 5 
subject in different lights; and, therefore, I hope it will not oe 



10 



15 



20 



30 



34 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

thought disrespectful to those gentlemen, if, entertaining as I do 
opinions of a character very opposite to theirs, I shall speak 
forth my sentiments freely and without reserve. This is no 
time for ceremony. 

The question before the House is one of awful moment to 
this country. For my own part, I consider it as nothing less 
than a question of freedom or slavery ; and in proportion to the 
magnitude of the subject ought to be the freedom of the debate. 
It is only in this way that we can hope to arrive at truth, and 
fulfill the great responsibility which we hold to God and our 
country. Should I keep back my opinions at such a time, 
through fear of giving offense, I should consider myself as guilty 
of treason toward my country, and of an act of disloyalty toward 
the Majesty of Heaven, which I revere above all earthly kings. 
Mr. President, it is natural to man to indulge in the illusion of 
hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, and 
listen to the song of that siren, till she transforms us into beasts. 
Is this the part of wise men, engaged in a great and arduous 
struggle for liberty? Are we disposed to be of the number of 
those who, having eyes, see not, and having ears, hear not, the 
thing? that so nearly concern their temporal salvation ? For my 
part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to know 
the whole truth — to know the worst, and to provide for it. 

I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided, and that 
is the lamp of experience. T know of no way of judging of the 
future but by the past. And judging by the past, I wish to know 
what there has been in the conduct of the British ministry for 
the last ten years to justify those hopes with which gentlemen 
have been pleased to solace . themselves and the House. Is it 
that insidious smile with which our petition has been lately 
received? Trust it not, sir; it will prove a snare to your feet. 
Suffer not yourselves to be betrayed with a kiss. Ask your- 
selves how this gracious reception of our petition comports with 
those warlike preparations which cover our waters and darken 



THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD 35 

our land. Are fleets and armies necessary to a work of love 
and reconciliation? Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to 
be reconciled that force must be called in to win back our love? 
Let us not deceive ourselves, sir. These are the implements of 
war and subjugation, the last arguments to which kings resort. 5 

I ask, gentlemen, what means this martial array, if its purpose 
be not to force us to submission? Can gentlemen assign any 
other possible motive for it? Has Great Britain any enemy 
in this quarter of the world to call for all this accumulation of 
navies and armies? No, sir, she has none. They are meant 10 
for us; they can be meant for no other. They are sent over 
to bind and rivet upon us those chains which the British ministry 
have been so long forging. And what have we to oppose to 
them? Shall we try argument? Sir, we have been trying that 
for the last ten years. Have we anything new to offer upon the 15 
subject ? Nothing. We have held the subject up in every light 
of which it is capable ; but it has been all in vain. 

Shall we resort to entreaty and humble supplication? What 
terms shall we find which have not been already exhausted? 
Let us not, I beseech you, deceive ourselves longer. Sir, we 2 
have done everything that could be done to avert the storm which 
is now coming on. We have petitioned ; we have remonstrated ; 
we have supplicated; we have prostrated ourselves before the 
throne, and have implored its interposition to arrest the tyran- 
nical hand of the ministry and Parliament. Our petitions have 2 5 
been slighted ; our remonstrances have produced additional vio- 
lence and insult; our supplications have been disregarded, and 
we have been spurned, with contempt, from the foot of the 
throne ! 

In vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond hope of 30 
peace and reconciliation. There is no longer any room for hope. 
If we wish to be free, — if we mean to preserve inviolate those 
inestimable privileges for which we have been so long contend- 
ing, — if we mean not basely to abandon the noble struggle in 



36 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

which we have been so long engaged, and which we have pledged 
ourselves never to abandon, until the glorious object of our 
contest shall be obtained — we must fight! I repeat it, sir, we 
must fight! An appeal to arms and to the God of Hosts is 
5 all that is left us! 

They tell us, sir, that we are weak — unable to cope with so 
formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger? 
Will it be the next week, or the next year? Will it be when 
we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be 

10 stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by irresolu- 
tion and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of effectual 
resistance by lying supinely on our backs and hugging the delu- 
sive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us 
hand and foot? 

15 Sir, we are not weak if we make a proper use of those means 

which the God of nature has placed in our power. Three 
millions of people armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in 
such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any 
force which our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we 

2 shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God who 
presides over the destinies of nations, and who will raise up 
friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the 
strong alone ; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, 
sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, 

2 5 it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is no retreat 
but in submission and slavery ! Our chains are forged ! Their 
clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston ! The war is 
inevitable— and let it come ! I repeat it, sir, let it come ! 

It is vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry, 

30 Peace, peace— but there is no peace. The war is actually begun ! 
The next gale that sweeps from the North will bring to our ears 
the clash of resounding arms ! Our brethren are already in the 
field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen 
wish? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at 



THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD 37 

the price of chains and slavery ? Forbid it, Almighty God ! I 
know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me 
liberty or give me death ! 

THOMAS JEFFERSON 

Born at Shadwell, Albemarle County, Va-, 1743; died at Monticello, in 
the same county, 1826 

OPINION OF FRANCE 

And here I cannot leave this great and good country without 
expressing my sense of its pre-eminence of character among the 5 
nations of the earth. A more benevolent people I have never 
known, nor greater warmth and devotedness in their select 
friendships. Their kindness and accommodation to strangers 
is unparalleled, and the hospitality of Paris is beyond anything I 
had conceived to be practicable in a large city. Their eminence, 10 
too, in science, the communicative disposition of their scientific 
men, the politeness of the general manners, the ease and vivacity 
of their conversation, give a charm to their society, to be found 
nowhere else. In a comparison of this, with other countries, we 
have the proof of primacy which was given to Themistocles after 1 5 
the battle of Salamis. Every general voted to himself the first 
reward of valor, and the second to Themistocles. So, ask the 
traveled inhabitant of any nation, in what country on earth 
would you rather live ? Certainly, in my own, where are all my 
friends, my relations, and the earliest and sweetest affections 20 
and recollections of my life. Which would be your second 
choice ? France. 

FIRST INAUGURAL ADDRESS 

Friends and fellow-citizens : 

Called upon to undertake the duties of the first executive 
office of our country, I avail myself of the presence of that 25 



39 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

portion of my fellow-citizens which is here assembled to express 
my grateful thanks for the favor with which they have been 
pleased to look toward me, to declare a sincere consciousness 
that the task is above my talents, and that I approach it with 
5 those anxious and awful presentiments which the greatness of 
the charge and the weakness of my powers so justly inspire. A 
rising nation, spread over a wide and fruitful land ; traversing 
all the seas with the rich productions of their industry ; engaged 
in commerce with nations who feel power and forget right; 

10 advancing rapidly to destinies beyond the reach of mortal eye, — 
when I contemplate these transcendent objects, and see the honor, 
the happiness, and the hopes of this beloved country committed 
to the issue and the auspices of this day, I shrink from the 
contemplation and humble myself before the magnitude of the 

15 undertaking. Utterly, indeed, should I despair, did not the 
presence of many whom I here see remind me that in the other 
high authorities provided by our Constitution I shall find 
resources of wisdom, of virtue, and of zeal, on which to rely 
under all difficulties. To you, then, gentlemen, who are charged 

20 with the sovereign functions of legislation, and to those associ- 
ated with you, I look with encouragement for that guidance and 
support which may enable us to steer with safety the vessel in 
which we are all embarked, amid the conflicting elements of a 
troubled sea. 

2 5 During the contest of opinion through which we have passed, 

the animation of discussion and of exertions has sometimes worn 
an aspect which might impose on strangers unused to think 
freely and to speak and to write what they think. But, this 
being now decided by the voice of the nation, enounced accord- 

30 ing to the rules of the Constitution, all will, of course, arrange 
themselves under the will of the law, and unite in common efforts 
for the common good. All, too, will bear in mind this sacred 
principle, that, though the will of the majority is in all cases to 
prevail, that will, to be rightful, must be reasonable ; that the 



THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD 39 

minority possess their equal rights, which equal laws must 
protect, and to violate [which] would be oppression. Let us, 
then, fellow-citizens, unite with one heart and one mind; let us 
restore to social intercourse that harmony and affection without 
which liberty and even life itself are but dreary things. And 5 
let us reflect that having banished from our land that religious 
intolerance under which mankind so long bled and suffered, we 
have yet gained little if we countenance a political intolerance as 
despotic, as wicked, and capable of as bitter and bloody persecu- 
tions. During the throes and convulsions of the ancient world, 10 
during Jthe agonized spasms of infuriated man, seeking through 
blood and slaughter his long-lost liberty, it was not wonderful 
that the agitation of the billows should reach even this distant 
and peaceful shore ; that this should be more felt and feared by 
some and less by others, and should divide opinions as to 15 
measures of safety. But every difference of opinion is not a 
difference of principle. We have called by different names 
brethren of the same principle. We are all republicans ; we are 
all federalists. If there be any among us who would wish to 
dissolve this Union, or to change its republican form, let them 2 
stand, undisturbed, as monuments of the safety with which error 
of opinion may be tolerated where reason is left free to combat 
it. I know, indeed, that some honest men have feared that a 
republican government cannot be strong ; that this government is 
not strong enough. But would the honest patriot, in the full 2 5 
tide of successful experiment, abandon a government which has 
so far kept us free and firm, on the theoretic and visionary fear 
that this government, the world's best hope, may, by possibility, 
want energy to preserve itself ? I trust not. I believe this, on 
the contrary, the strongest government on earth. I believe it 30 
is the only one where every man, at the call of the law, would 
fly to the standard of the law, and would meet invasions of 
public order as his own personal concern. Sometimes it is said 
that man cannot be trusted with the government of himself. 



40 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Can he, then, be trusted with the government of others? Or 
have we found angels in the form of kings, to govern him ? Let 
history answer this question. 

Let us, then, pursue with courage and confidence our own 
5 federal and republican principles, our attachment to Union and 
representative government. Kindly separated by nature and a 
wide ocean from the exterminating havoc of one-quarter of the 
globe ; too high-minded to endure the degradations of the others ; 
possessing a chosen country, with room enough for all descend- 

10 ants to the hundredth and thousandth generation; entertaining a 
due sense of our equal right to the use of our own faculties, to 
the acquisitions of our industry, to honor and confidence from 
our fellow-citizens, resulting not from birth but from our actions, 
and their sense of them; enlightened by a benign religion, pro- 

15 fessed, indeed, and practised in various forms, yet all of them 
inculcating honesty, truth, temperance, gratitude, and the love 
of man; acknowledging and adoring an overruling Providence, 
which, by all its dispensations, proves that it delights in the 
happiness of man here, and his greater happiness hereafter : with 

20 all these blessings, what more is necessary to make us a happy 
and a prosperous people ? Still one thing more, fellow-citizens, — 
a wise and frugal government, which shall restrain men from 
injuring one another, shall leave them otherwise free to regulate 
their own pursuits of industry and improvement, and shall not 

25 take from the mouth of labor the bread it has earned. This is 
the sum of good government, and this is necessary to close the 
circle of our felicities. 

About to enter, fellow-citizens, on the exercise of duties which 
comprehend everything dear and valuable to you, it is proper 

30 you should understand what I deem the essential principle [s] of 
this government, and, consequently, those which ought to shape 
its administration. I will compress them in the narrowest 
compass they will bear, stating the general principle, but not all 
its limitations. Equal and exact justice to all men, of whatever 



THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD 41 

state or persuasion, religious or political ; peace, commerce, and 
honest friendship with all nations, entangling alliances with none ; 
the support of the State governments in all their rights, as the 
most competent administrations for our domestic concerns 
and the surest bulwarks against anti-republican tendencies; the 5 
preservation of the General Government in its whole constitu- 
tional vigor, as the sheet-anchor of our peace at home and safety 
abroad; a jealous care of the right of election by the people, — a 
mild and safe corrective of abuses which are lopped by the sword 
of revolution, where peaceable remedies are unprovided ; absolute 10 
acquiescence in the decisions of the majority, — the vital principle 
of republics, from which is no appeal but to force, the vital 
principle and immediate parent of despotism ; a well-disciplined 
militia, — our best reliance in peace and for the first moments of 
war, till regulars may relieve them; the supremacy of the civil 15 
over the military authority ; economy in the public expense, that 
labor may be lightly burdened ; the honest payment of our debts 
and sacred preservation of the public faith; encouragement of 
agriculture and of commerce as its handmaid; the diffusion of 
information and arraignment of all abuses at the bar of the 20 
public reason; freedom of religion, freedom of the press, and 
freedom of person under the protection of the habeas corpus; 
and trial by juries impartially selected. These principles form 
the bright constellation which has gone before us, and guided 
our steps through an age of revolution and reformation. The 2 5 
wisdom of our sages and blood of our heroes have been devoted 
to their attainment. They should be the creed of our political 
faith, the text of civic instruction, the touchstone by which to 
try the services of those we trust; and should we wander from 
them in moments of error or alarm, let us hasten to retrace our 3 
steps, and to regain the road which alone leads to peace, liberty, 
and safety. 

"I repair, then, fellow-citizens, to the post which you have 
assigned me. With experience enough in subordinate stations 



42 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

to know the difficulties of this, the greatest of all, I have learned 
to expect that it will rarely fall to the lot of imperfect man to 
retire from this station with the reputation and the favor which 
bring him into it. Without pretensions to that high confidence 
5 you reposed in our first and greatest revolutionary character, 
whose pre-eminent services had entitled him to the first place 
in his country's love and had destined for him the fairest page 
in the volume of faithful history, I ask so much confidence only 
as may give firmness and effect to the legal administration of 

10 your affairs. I shall often go wrong, through defect of judg- 
ment. When right, I shall often be thought wrong by those 
whose position will not command a view of the whole ground. 
I ask your indulgence for my own errors, which will never be 
intentional; and your support against the errors of others, who 

15 may condemn what they would not, if seen in all its parts. The 
approbation implied by your suffrage is a great consolation to 
me for the past; and my future solicitude will be to retain the 
good opinion of those who have bestowed it in advance, to 
conciliate that of others by doing them all the good in my power, 

20 and to be instrumental to the happiness and freedom of all. 

Relying, then, on the patronage of your good will, I advance 
with obedience to the work, ready to retire from it whenever you 
become sensible how much better choice it is in your power to 
make. And may that Infinite Power which rules the destinies of 

26 the universe lead our councils to what is best and give them a 
favorable issue for your peace and prosperity. 



THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD 43 

POEMS OF THE REVOLUTION 



THE BATTLE OF THE KEGS 

By Francis Hopkinson (1737-1791) 

Gallants attend and hear a friend 

Trill forth harmonious ditty ; 
Strange things I'll tell which late befell 

In Philadelphia city. 

'Twas early day, as poets say, 5 

Just when the sun was rising; 
A soldier stood on a log of wood, 

And saw a thing surprising. 

As in amaze he stood to gaze, 

The truth can't be denied, sir, 10 

He spied a score of kegs or more 

Come floating down the tide, sir. 

A sailor too in jerkin blue, 

This strange appearance viewing, 
First damned his eyes, in great surprise, 1 5 

Then said, "Some mischief's brewing. 

"These kegs, Fm told, the rebels hold, 

Packed up like pickled herring ; 
And they're come down to attack the town, 

In this new way of ferrying." 20 

The soldier flew, the sailor too, 

And scared almost to death, sir, 
Wore out their shoes, to spread the news, 

And ran till out of breath, sir. 



• 4 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Now up and down throughout the town, 
Most frantic scenes were acted; 

And some ran here, and others there, 
Like men almost distracted. 

5 Some fire cried, which some denied, 

But said the earth had quaked ; 
And girls and boys, with hideous noise, 
Ran through the streets half naked. 

Sir William he, snug as a flea, 
10 Lay all this time a-snoring, 

****** 
****** 

Now in a fright, he starts upright, 
Awaked by such a clatter; 
I 5 He rubs both eyes, and boldly cries, 

"For God's sake, what's the matter?" 

At his bedside he then espied 

Sir Erskine at command, sir ; 
Upon one foot he had one boot, 
2 ° And th' other in his hand, sir. 

"Arise, arise," Sir Erskine cries, 
"The rebels — more's the pity, 

Without a boat are all afloat, 
And ranged before the city. 

"The motley crew, in vessels new, 
With Satan for their guide, sir, 

Packed up in bags, or wooden kegs, 
Come driving down the tide, sir. 



25 



THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD 45 

"Therefore prepare for bloody war, 

These kegs must all be routed, 
Or surely we despised shall be, 

And British courage doubted." 

The royal band now ready stand 6 

All ranged in dread array, sir, 
With stomach stout to see it out, 

And make a bloody day, sir. 

The cannons roar from shore to shore, 

The small arms make a rattle ; 1 ° 

Since wars began I'm sure no man 

E'er saw so strange a battle. 

The rebel dales, the rebel vales, 

With rebel trees surrounded, 
The distant woods, the hills and floods, 1 5 

With rebel echoes sounded. 



The fish below swam to and fro, 

Attacked from every quarter ; 
Why sure, thought they, the devil's to pay, 

'Mongst folks above the water. 



20 



The kegs, 'tis said, though strongly made, 
Of rebel staves and hoops, sir, 

Could not oppose their powerful foes, 
The conquering British troops, sir. 

From morn to night these men of might 

Displayed amazing courage ; 
And when the sun was fairly down, 

Retired to sup their porridge. 



READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

A hundred men with each a pen, 

Or more upon my word, sir, 
It is most true would be too few, 

Their valor to record, sir. 

Such feats did they perform that day, 
Against these wicked kegs, sir, 

That years to come, if they get home, 
They'll make their boasts and brags, sir. 



THE BALLAD OF NATHAN HALE 

Anonymous 

The breezes went steadily through the tall pines, 
1 A-saying, "Oh ! hu-ush !" a-saying, "Oh ! hu-ush !" 

As stilly stole by a bold legion of horse, 
For Hale in the bush ; for Hale in the bush. 

"Keep still !" said the thrush as she nestled her young, 
In a nest by the road ; in a nest by the road. 
1 5 "For the tyrants are near, and with them appear 

What bodes us no good ; what bodes us no good." 

The brave captain heard it, and thought of his home 
In a cot by the brook ; in a cot by the brook. 

With mother and sister and memories dear, 
He so gayly forsook ; he so gayly forsook. 

Cooling shades of the night were coming apace, 
The tattoo had beat ; the tattoo had beat. 

The noble one sprang from his dark lurking-place, 
To make his retreat ; to make his retreat. 



20 



THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD 47 

He warily trod on the dry rustling leaves, 

As he passed through the wood ; as he passed through the wood ; 
And silently gained his rude launch on the shore, 

As she played with the flood ; as she played with the flood. 

The guards of the camp, on that dark, dreary night, 5 

Had a murderous will ; had a murderous will. 
They took him and bore him afar from the shore, 

To a hut on the hill ; to a hut on the hill. 

No mother was there, nor a friend who could cheer, 
In that little stone cell ; in that little stone cell. 10 

But he trusted in love, from his Father above. 
In his heart all was well ; in his heart all was well. 



An ominous owl, with his solemn bass voice, 
Sat moaning hard by ; sat moaning hard by : 

"The tyrant's proud minions most gladly rejoice, 
For he must soon die : for he must soon die." 



15 



The brave fellow told them, no thing he restrained, — 

The cruel general ! the cruel general ! — 
His errand from camp, of the ends to be gained, 20 

And said that was all ; and said that was all. 

They took him and bound him and bore him away, 
Down the hill's grassy side ; down the hill's grassy side. 

'Twas there the base hirelings, in royal array, 
His cause did deride ; his cause did deride. 

Five minutes were given, short moments, no more, 

For him to repent ; for him to repent. 
He prayed for his mother, he asked not another, — 

To Heaven he went ; to Heaven he went. 



48 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

The faith of a martyr the tragedy showed, 

As he trode the last stage ; as he trode the last stage. 

And Britons will shudder at gallant Hale's blood, 
As his words do presage ; as his words do presage. 

5 "Thou pale king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, 
Go frighten the slave ; go frighten the slave ; 
Tell tyrants, to you their allegiance they owe. 
No fears for the brave ; no fears for the brave." 

COLUMBIA 

By Timothy Dwight (1752-1817) 

Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise, 
10 The queen of the world, and the child of the skies ! 

Thy genius commands thee ; with rapture behold, 
While ages on ages thy splendors unfold. 

Thy reign is the last, and the noblest of time, 
Most fruitful thy soil, most inviting thy clime ; 
1 5 Let the crimes of the east ne'er encrimson thy name, 

Be freedom, and science, and virtue thy fame. 

To conquest and slaughter let Europe aspire ; 
Whelm nations in blood, and wrap cities in fire ; 
Thy heroes the rights of mankind shall defend, 
20 And triumph pursue them, and glory attend. 

A world is thy realm : for a world be thy laws, 
Enlarged as thine empire, and just as thy cause; 
On Freedom's broad basis, that empire shall rise, 
Extend with the main, and dissolve with the skies. 



25 



Fair Science her gates to thy sons shall unbar, 

And the east see thy morn hide the beams of her star. 



THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD 49 

New bards, and new sages, unrivaled shall soar 

To fame unextinguished, when time is no more ; 

To thee, the last refuge of virtue designed, 

Shall fly from all nations the best of mankind ; 

Here, grateful to heaven, with transport shall bring 5 

Their incense, more fragrant than odors of spring. 

Nor less shall thy fair ones to glory ascend, 

And genius and beauty in harmony blend ; 

The graces of form shall awake pure desire, 

And the charms of the soul ever cherish the fire; 10 

Their sweetness unmingled, their manners refined, 

And virtue's bright image, instamped on the mind, 

With peace and soft rapture shall teach life to glow, 

And light up a smile in the aspect of woe. 



Thy fleets to all regions thy power shall display, 
The nations admire, and the ocean obey ; 
Each shore to thy glory its tribute unfold, 
And the east and the south yield their spices and gold. 
As the day-spring unbounded, thy splendor shall flow, 
And earth's little kingdoms before thee shall bow : 
While the ensigns of union, in trumph unfurled, 
Hush the tumult of war, and give peace to the world. 

Thus, as down a lone valley, with cedars o'erspread, 
From war's dread confusion I pensively strayed — 
The gloom from the face of fair heaven retired ; 
The winds ceased to murmur ; the thunders expired ; 
Perfumes, as of Eden, flowed sweetly along, 
And a voice, as of angels, enchantingly sung: 
"Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise, 
The queen of the world, and the child of the skies." 



15 



20 



25 



30 



50 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

A TORY'S PUNISHMENT 

By John Trumbull (1750-1831) 

Meanwhile beside the pole, the guard 
A Bench of Justice had prepared, 
Where sitting round in awful sort 
The grand Committee hold their Court ; 
5 While all the crew, in silent awe, 

Wait from their lips the lore of law. 
Few moments with deliberation 
They hold the solemn consultation ; 
When soon in judgment all agree, 
1 ° And Clerk proclaims the dread decree ; 

"That 'Squire McFingal having grown 
The vilest Tory in the town, 
And now in full examination 
Convicted by his own confession, 
Finding no tokens of repentance, 
This Court proceeds to render sentence: 
That first the Mob a slip-knot single 
Tie round the neck of said McFingal, 
And in due form do tar nim next. 
And feather, as the law directs ; 
Then through the town attendant ride him 
In cart with Constable beside him. 
And having held him up to shame, 
Bring to the pole, from whence he came." 

Forthwith the crowd proceed to deck 
With halter'd noose McFingal's neck ; 
While he in peril of his soul 
Stood tied half -hanging to the pole ; 
Then lifting high the ponderous jar, 
Pour'd o'er his head the smoking tar. 



20 



25 



30 



THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD 51 

With less profusion once was spread 

Oil on the Jewish monarch's head, 

That down his beard and vestments ran, 

And cover'd all his outward man. 

As when (so Claudian sings) the Gods 5 

And earth-born Giants fell at odds, 

The stout Enceladus in malice 

Tore mountains up to throw at Pallas ; 

And while he held them o'er his head, 

The river, from their fountains fed, 10 

Pour'd down his back its copious tide, 

And wore its channels in his hide : 
So from the high-raised urn the torrents 
Spread down his side their various currents ; 
His flowing wig, as next the brim, 1 5 

First met and drank the sable stream ; 
Adown his visage stern and grave 
Roll'd and adhered the viscid wave ; 
With arms depending as he stood, 

Each cuff capacious holds the flood ; 2 

From nose and chin's remotest end 
The tarry icicles descend ; 
Till all o'erspread, with colors gay, 
He glitter'd to the western ray, 

Like sleet-bound trees in wintry skies, - 6 

Or Lapland idol carved in ice. 
And now the feather-bag display'd 
Is waved in^triumph o'er his head, 
And clouds him o'er with feathers missive, 
And down, upon the tar, adhesive: 30 

Not Maia's son, with wings for ears, 
Such plumage round his visage wears, 
Nor Milton's six-wing'd angel gathers 
Such superfluity of feathers. 



52 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Now all complete appears our 'Squire, 
Like Gorgon or Chimaera dire ; 
Nor more could boast on Plato's plan 
To rank among the race of man, 
5 Or prove his claim to human nature, 

As a two-legg'd unfeather'd creature. 

Then on the fatal cart, in state 
They raised our grand Duumvirate. 
And as at Rome a like committee, 

10 Who found an owl within their city, 

With solemn rites and grave processions 
At every shrine perform'd lustrations; 
And lest infection might take place 
From such grim fowl with feather'd face, 

15 All Rome attends him through the street 

In triumph to his country seat : 
With like devotion all the choir 
Paraded round our awful 'Squire; 
In front the martial music comes 

2 Of horns and fiddles, fifes and drums, 

With jingling sound of carriage bells, 
And treble creak of rusted wheels. 
Behind, the crowd, in lengthen'd row 
With proud procession, closed the show. 

25 And at fit periods every throat 

Combined in universal shout, 
And hail'd great Liberty in chorus, 
Or bawl'd "confusion to the Tories." 
Not louder storm the welkin braves 

30 From clamors of conflicting waves; 

Less dire in Libyan wilds the noise 
When rav'ning lions lift their voice ; 
Or triumphs at town-meetings made, 
On passing votes to regulate trade. 



THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD 53 

Thus having borne him round the town, 
Last at the pole they set him down; 
And to the tavern take their way 
To end in mirth the festal day. 

PHILIP FRENEAU 
Born in New York, 1752 ; died in New Jersey, 1832 

THE INDIAN BURYING-GROUND 

In spite of all the learned have said, 5 

I still by old opinion keep ; 
The posture that we give the dead 

Points out the soul's eternal sleep. 

Not so the ancients of these lands ; — 

The Indian, when from life released, 10 

Again is seated with his friends, 

And shares again the joyous feast. 

His imaged birds, and painted bowl, 

And venison, for a journey dressed, 
Bespeak the nature of the soul, 15 

Activity, that wants no rest. 

His bow for action ready bent, 

And arrows with a head of stone, 
Can only mean that life is spent, 

And noj: the old ideas gone. 2 ° 

Thou, stranger, that shall come this way, 

No fraud upon the dead commit, — 
Observe the swelling turf, and say, 

They do not lie, but here they sit. 



54 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Here still a lofty rock remains, 

On which the curious eye may trace 

(Now wasted half by wearing rains) 
The fancies of a ruder race. 

5 Here still an aged elm aspires, 

Beneath whose far-projecting shade 
(And which the shepherd still admires) 
The children of the forest played. 

There oft a restless Indian queen 
10 (Pale Shebah with her braided hair), 

And many a barbarous form is seen 
To chide the man that lingers there. 

By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews, 
In habit for the chase arrayed, 
1 5 The hunter still the deer pursues, 

The hunter and the deer — a shade ! 

And long shall timorous Fancy see 
The painted chief, and pointed spear, 

And Reason's self shall bow the knee 
To shadows and delusions here. 

THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE 

Fair flower, that dost so comely grow, 

Hid in this silent, dull retreat, 
Untouched thy honied blossoms blow, 
Unseen thy little branches greet : 
25 No roving foot shall crush thee here, 

No busy hand provoke a tear. 



THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD 55 

By Nature's self, in white arrayed, 

She bade thee shun the vulgar eye, 
And planted here the guardian shade, 
And sent soft waters murmuring by ; 

Thus quietly thy summer goes, 5 

Thy days declining to repose. 

Smit with those charms, that must decay, 

I grieve to see your future doom ; 
They died — nor were those flowers more gay, 

The flowers that did in Eden bloom ; 1 

Unpitying frosts and Autumn's power 
Shall leave no vestige of this flower. 

From morning suns and evening dews 

At first thy little being came; 
If nothing once, you nothing lose, 15 

For when you die you are the same ; 
The space between is but an hour, 
The frail duration of a flower. 

TO A HONEY BEE 
Drinking From a Glass of Wine and Drowning Therein 

Thou, born to sip the lake or spring, 

Or quaff the waters of the stream, 20 

Why hither come, on vagrant wing? 
Does Bacchus tempting seem, — 
Did he for joy this glass prepare? 
Will I achnit you to a share ? 

Did storms harass or foes perplex, 2 5 

Did wasps or king-birds bring dismay, — 

Did wars distress, or labors vex, 
Or did you miss your way? 



56 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

A better seat you could not take 
Than on the margin of this lake. 

Welcome ! — I hail you to my glass : 
All welcome here you find; 
5 Here let the cloud of trouble pass, 

Here be all care resigned. 

This fluid never fails to please, 

And drown the grief of men or bees. 

What forced you here we cannot know, 
1 And you will scarcely tell, 

But cheery we would have you go 
And bid a glad farewell : 

On lighter wings we bid you fly, — 
Your dart will now all foes defy. 

1 5 Yet take not, oh ! too deep a drink, 

And in this ocean die; 
Here bigger bees than you might sink, 
Even bees full six feet high. 

Like Pharaoh, then, you would be said 
To perish in a sea of red. 

Do as you please, your will is mine ; 

Enjoy it without fear, 
And your grave will be this glass of wine, 
Your epitaph — a tear ; 

Go, take your seat in Charon's boat ; 
We'll tell the hive, you died afloat. 



THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD 57 

CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN 
Born in Philadelphia, 1770; died there, 1810 

EDGAR HUNTLY'S INDIAN ADVENTURE 

From Edgar Huntly; or, Memoirs of a Sleep-Walker 
I went forward, but my eyes were fixed upon the fire: pres- 
ently, in consequence of changing my station, I perceived several 
feet and the skirts of blankets. I was somewhat startled at 
these appearances. The legs were naked, and scored into 
uncouth figures. The moccasins which lay beside them and which 5 
were adorned in a grotesque manner, in addition to other inci- 
dents, immediately suggested the suspicion that they were 
Indians. No spectacle was more adapted than this to excite 
wonder and alarm. Had some mysterious power snatched me 
from earth and cast me, in a moment, into the heart of the 10 
wilderness? Was I still in the vicinity of my parental habita- 
tion, or was I thousands of miles distant? Were these the 
permanent inhabitants of this region, or were they wanderers 
and robbers? While in the heart of the mountain, I had enter- 
tained a vague belief that I was still within the precincts of 15 
Norwalk. This opinion was shaken for a moment by the objects 
which I now beheld, but it insensibly returned: yet how was 
this opinion to be reconciled to appearances so strange and 
uncouth, and what measure did a due regard to my safety enjoin 
me to take? 

I now gained a view of four brawny and terrific figures, 
stretched upon the ground. They lay parallel to each other, on 
their left sides ; in consequence of which their faces were turned 
from me. Between each was an interval where lay a musket. 
Their right hands seemed placed upon the stocks of their guns, 25 
as if to seize them on the first moment of alarm. 

The aperture through which these objects were seen was at 
the back of the cave and some feet from the ground. It was 



20 



10 



15 



58 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

merely large enough to suffer a human body to pass. It was 
involved in profound darkness, and there was no danger of being 
suspected or discovered as long as I maintained silence and kept 
out of view. 

Could I not escape, unperceived and without alarming the 
sleepers, from this cavern ? The slumber of an Indian is broken 
by the slightest noise; but if all noise be precluded, it is com- 
monly profound. It was possible, I conceived, to leave my 
present post, to descend into the cave and issue forth without 
the smallest signal. Their supine posture assured me that they 
were asleep. Sleep usually comes at their bidding, and if, 
perchance, they should be wakeful at an unseasonable moment, 
they always sit upon their haunches, and, leaning their elbows 
on their knees, consume the tedious hours in smoking. My 
peril would be great. Accidents which I could not foresee and 
over which I had no command might occur to awaken some one 
at the moment I was passing the fire. Should I pass in safety, 
I might issue forth into a wilderness of which T had no knowl- 
edge, where I might wander till I perished with famine, or 

20 where my footsteps might be noted and pursued and overtaken 
by these implacable foes. These perils were enormous and 
imminent; but I likewise considered that I might be at no great 
distance from the habitations of men, and that my escape might 
rescue them from the most dreadful calamities. I determined 

25 to make this dangerous experiment without delay. 

I came nearer to the aperture and had, consequently, a larger 
view^ of this recess. To my unspeakable dismay, I now caught 
a glimpse of one seated at the fire. His back was turned 
toward me, so that I could distinctly survey his gigantic form 

30 and fantastic ornaments. 

****** 

This interval of dreary foreboding did not last long. Some 

motion in him that was seated by the fire attracted my notice. 

T looked, and beheld him rise from his place and go forth from 



10 



THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD 59 

the cavern. This unexpected incident led my thoughts into a 
new channel. Could not some advantage be taken of his absence? 
Could not this opportunity be seized for making my escape ? He 
had left his gun and hatchet on the ground. It was likely, there- 
fore, that he had not gone far and would speedily return. Might 
not these weapons be seized, and some provision be thus made 
against the danger of meeting him without, or of being pursued ? 

Before a resolution could be formed a new sound saluted 
my ear. It was a deep groan, succeeded by sobs that seemed 
struggling for utterance, but were vehemently counteracted by 
the sufferer. This low and bitter lamentation apparently pro- 
ceeded from some one within the cave. It could not be from 
one of this swarthy band. It must, then, proceed from a captive, 
whom they had reserved for torment or servitude and who had 
seized the opportunity afforded by the absence of him that 15 
watched to give vent to his despair. 

I again thrust my head forward and beheld, lying on the 
ground, apart from the rest and bound hand and foot, a young 
girl. Her dress was the coarse russet garb of the country and 
bespoke her to be some farmer's daughter. Her features denoted 2 
the last degree of fear and anguish, and she moved her limbs in 
such a manner as showed that the ligatures by which she was 
confined produced, by their tightness, the utmost degree of pain. 

My wishes were now bent, not only to preserve myself and 
to frustrate the future attempts of these savages, but likewise 25 
to relieve this miserable victim. This could only be done by 
escaping from the cavern and returning with seasonable aid. The 
sobs of the girl were likely to rouse the sleepers. My appear- 
ance before her would prompt her to testify her surprise by some 
exclamation or shriek. What could hence be predicted but that 30 
the band would start on their feet and level their unerring pieces 
at my head ? 

The girl's cheek rested on the hard rock, and her eyes were 
dim with tears. As they were turned toward me, however, I 



60 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

hoped that my movements would be noticed by her gradually 
and without abruptness. This expectation was fulfilled. I had 
not advanced many steps before she discovered me. This 
moment was critical beyond all others in the course of my 
5 existence. My life was suspended, as it were, by a spider's 
thread. All rested on the effect which this discovery should 
make upon this feeble victim. 

I was watchful of the first movement of her eye which should 
indicate a consciousness of my presence. I labored, by gestures 

10 and looks, to deter her from betraying her emotion. My atten- 
tion was, at the same time, fixed upon the sleepers, and an 
anxious glance was cast toward the quarter whence the watchful 
savage might appear. I stooped and seized the musket and 
hatchet. The space beyond the fire was, as I expected, open to 

15 the air. I issued forth with trembling steps. The sensations 
inspired by the dangers which environed me, added to my recent 
horrors and the influence of the. moon, which had now gained 
the zenith, and whose lustre dazzled my long-benighted senses, 
cannot be adequately described. 

20* * * * * * * 

My progress was quickly checked. Close to the falling 

water, seated on the edge, his back supported by the rock and 

his legs hanging over the precipice, I now beheld the savage who 

left the cave before me. The noise of the cascade and the improb- 

25 ability of interruption, at least from this quarter, had made him 
inattentive to my motions. 

* * * * * 5jC * 

Yet I did hesitate. My aversion to bloodshed was to be sub- 
dued but by the direst necessity. I knew, indeed, that the 
30 discharge of a musket would only alarm the enemies who 
remained behind ; but I had another and a better weapon in my 
grasp. I could rive the head of my adversary, and cast him 
headlong, without any noise which should be heard, into the 
cavern. Still, I was willing to withdraw, to re-enter the cave, 



THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD 61 

and take shelter in the darksome recesses from which I had 
emerged. Here I might remain, unsuspected, till these detested 
guests should depart. The hazards attending my re-entrance 
were to be boldly encountered and the torments of unsatisfied 
thirst were to be patiently endured rather than imbrue my hands 5 
in the blood of my fellow-men. But this expedient would be 
ineffectual if my retreat should be observed by this savage. Of 
that I was bound to be incontestably assured. I retreated, there- 
fore, but kept my eye fixed at the same time upon the enemy. 

Some ill-fate decreed that I should not retreat unobserved. 10 
Scarcely had I withdrawn three paces when he started from his 
seat, and, turning toward me, walked with a quick pace. The 
shadow of the rock and the improbability of meeting an enemy 
here concealed me for a moment from his observation. I stood 
still. The slightest motion would have attracted his notice. At 15 
present, the narrow space engaged all his vigilance. Cautious 
footsteps and attention to the path were indispensable to his 
safety. The respite was momentary, and I employed it in my 
own defence. 

How otherwise could I act? The danger that impended 20 
aimed at nothing less than my life. To take the life of another 
was the only method of averting it. The means were in my 
hand, and they were used. In an extremity like this my muscles 
would have acted almost in defiance of my will. 

The stroke was quick as lightning, and the wound mortal 25 
and deep. He had not time to descry the author of his fate, 
but, sinking on the path, expired without a groan. The hatchet 
buried itself in his breast and rolled with him to the bottom of 
the precipice, 
* * * * * * *30 

I thought upon the condition of the hapless girl whom I had 
left in the power of the savages. Was it impossible to rescue 
her? Might I not relieve her from her bonds and make her 
the companion of my flight ? The exploit was perilous, but not 



62 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

impracticable. There was something dastardly and ignominious 
in withdrawing from the danger and leaving a helpless being 
exposed to it. A single minute might suffice to snatch her from 
death or captivity. The parents might deserve that I should 
5 hazard or even sacrifice my life in the cause of their child. 

After some fluctuation, I determined to return to the cavern 
and attempt the rescue of the girl. The success of this project 
depended on the continuance of their sleep. It was proper to 
approach with wariness and to heed the smallest token which 

10 might bespeak their condition. I crept along the path, bending 
my ear forward to catch any sound that might arise. I heard 
nothing but the half-stifled sobs of the girl. 

I entered with the slowest and most anxious circumspection. 
Everything was found in its pristine state. The girl noticed 

15 my entrance with a mixture of terror and joy. My gestures and 
looks enjoined upon her silence. I stooped down, and, taking 
another hatchet, cut asunder the deer-skin thongs by which her 
wrists and ankles were tied. I then made signs for her to rise 
and follow me. She willingly complied with my directions ; but 

20 her benumbed joints and lacerated sinews refused to support 

her. There was no time to be lost; I therefore lifted her in my 

arms, and, feeble and tottering as I was, proceeded with this 

burden along the perilous steep and over a most rugged path. 

[Huntly carries the girl to a deserted house on the edge of 

2 5 the woods. Meanwhile, the Indians in the cave awake and, 

missing their prisoner, trail her rescuer to the cabin. While he 

is out reconnoitering, he observes them as they enter the house.J 

I now reflected that I might place myself, without being 

observed, near the entrance, at an angle of the building, and 

30 shoot at each as he successively came forth. I perceived that 
the bank conformed to two sides of the house and that I might 
gain a view of the front and of the entrance without exposing 
myself to observation. I lost no time in gaining this station. 
The bank was as high as my breast. It was easy, therefore, 



THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD 63 

to crouch beneath it, to bring my eye close to the verge, and, 
laying my gun upon the top of it among the grass, with its 
muzzle pointed to the door, patiently to wait their forthcoming. 

My eye and my ear were equally attentive to what was pass- 
ing. A low and muttering conversation was maintained in the 5 
house. Presently I heard a heavy stroke descend. I shuddered, 
and my blood ran cold at the sound. I entertained no doubt but 
that it was the stroke of a hatchet on the head or breast of the 
helpless sleeper. 

It was followed by a loud shriek. The continuance of these 10 
shrieks proved that the stroke had not been instantly fatal. I 
waited to hear it repeated, but the sounds that now arose were 
like those produced by dragging somewhat along the ground. 
The shrieks, meanwhile, were incessant and piteous. My heart 
faltered, and I saw that mighty efforts must be made to pre- 15 
serve my joints and my nerves steadfast. All depended on the 
strenuous exertions and the fortunate dexterity of a moment. 

One now approached the door and came forth, dragging 
the girl, whom he held by the hair, after him. What hindered 
me from shooting at his first appearance I know not. This had 20 
been my previous resolution. My hand touched the trigger, and, 
as he moved, the piece was leveled at his right ear. Perhaps 
the momentous consequences of my failure made me wait till 
his ceasing to move might render my aim more sure. 

Having dragged the girl, still piteously shrieking, to the 2 5 
distance of ten feet from the house, he threw her from him with 
violence. She fell upon the ground, and, observing him level 
his piece at her breast, renewed her supplications in a still more 
piercing tone. Little did the forlorn wretch think that her deliv- 
erance was certain and near. I rebuked myself for having thus 30 
long delayed. I fired, and my enemy sunk upon the ground 
without a struggle. 

Thus far had success attended me in this unequal contest. 
The next shot would leave me nearly powerless. If that, how- 



64 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

ever, proved as unerring as the first, the chances of defeat were 
lessened. The savages within, knowing the intentions of their 
associate with regard to the captive girl, would probably mistake 
the report which they heard for that of his piece. Their 
5 mistake, however, would speedily give place to doubts, and they 
would rush forth to ascertain the truth. It behooved me to 
provide a similar reception for him that next appeared. 

It was as I expected. Scarcely was my eye again fixed upon 
the entrance, when a tawny and terrible visage was stretched 

10 fearfully forth. It was the signal of his fate. His glances, 
cast wildly and swiftly round, lighted upon me and on the fatal 
instrument which was pointed at his forehead. His muscles 
were at once exerted to withdraw his head and to vociferate a 
warning to his fellow; but his movement was too slow. The 

1 5 ball entered above his ear. He stumbled headlong to the ground, 
bereaved of sensation, though not of life, and had power only 
to struggle and mutter. 
******* 

There was now an interval for flight. Throwing my weapons 
20 away, I might gain the thicket in a moment. I had no ammuni- 
tion, nor would time be afforded me to reload my piece. My 
antagonist would render my poniard and my speed of no use 
to me. Should he miss me as I fled, the girl would remain to 
expiate, by her agonies and death, the fate of his companions. 
25 These thoughts passed through my mind in a shorter time 

than is demanded to express them. They yielded to an expedient 
suggested by the sight of the gun that had been raised to destroy 
the girl and which now lay upon the ground. I am not large of 
bone, but am not deficient in agility and strength. All that 
30 remained to me of these qualities was now exerted; and, drop- 
ping my own piece, I leaped upon the bank and flew to seize 
my prize. 

It was not till I snatched it from the ground that the pro- 
priety of regaining my former post rushed upon my apprehen- 



THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD 65 

sion. He that was still posted in the hovel would marK me 
through the seams of the wall and render my destruction sure. 
I once more ran toward the bank, with the intention to throw 
myself below it. All this was performed in an instant ; but my 
vigilant foe was aware of his advantage and fired through an 5 
opening between the logs. The bullet grazed my cheek and 
produced a benumbing sensation that made me instantly fall to 
the earth. Though bereaved of strength and fraught with the 
belief that I had received a mortal wound, my caution was not 
remitted. I loosened not my grasp of the gun, and the posture 10 
into which I accidentally fell enabled me to keep an eye upon 
the house and a hand upon the trigger. Perceiving my condi- 
tion, the savage rushed from his covert in order to complete his 
work ; but at three steps from the threshold he received my bullet 
in his breast. The uplifted tomahawk fell from his hand, and, 15 
uttering a loud shriek, he fell upon the body of his companion. 
His cries struck upon my heart, and I wished that his better 
fortune had cast this evil from him upon me. 

3|* SfE afC 3|S 3|C *|* *l* 

My anguish was mingled with astonishment. In spite of the 2 
force and uniformity with which my senses were impressed by 
external objects, the transition I had undergone was so wild and 
inexplicable; all that I had performed, all that I had witnessed 
since my egress from the pit, were so contradictory to precedent 
events that I still clung to the belief that my thoughts were con- 2 5 
fused by delirium. From these reveries I was at length recalled 
by the groans of the girl, who lay near me on the ground. 

I went to her and endeavored to console her. I found that, 
while lying in the bed, she had received a blow upon the side, 
which was still productive of acute pain. She was unable to 30 
rise or to walk, and it was plain that one or more of her ribs 
had been fractured by the blow. 

I knew not what means to devise for our mutual relief. It 
was possible that the nearest dwelling was many leagues distant. 



66 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

I knew not in what direction to go in order to find it, and my. 
strength would not suffice to carry my wounded companion 
thither in my arms. There was no expedient but to remain in 
this field of blood till the morning. 
5 I had scarcely formed this resolution before the report of a 

musket was heard at a small distance. At the same moment, I 
distinctly heard the whistling of a bullet near me. I now 
remembered that of the five Indians whom I saw in the cavern 
I was acquainted with the destiny only of four. The fifth might 

10 be still alive, and fortune might reserve for him the task of 
avenging his companions. His steps might now be tending hither 
in search of them. 

The musket belonging to him who was shot upon the threshold 
was still charged. It was discreet to make all the provision in 

15 my power against danger. I possessed myself of this gun, and, 
seating myself on the ground, looked carefully on all sides to 
descry the approach of the enemy. I listened with breathless 
eagerness. 

Presently voices were heard. They ascended from that part 

20 of the thicket from which my view was intercepted by the cottage. 
These voices had something in them that bespoke them to belong 
to friends and countrymen. As yet I was unable to distinguish 
words. 

Presently my eye was attracted to one quarter by a sound 

25 as of feet trampling down bushes. Several heads were seen 
moving in succession, and at length the whole person was con- 
spicuous. One after another leaped over a kind of mound which 
bordered the field, and made toward the spot where I sat. This 
band was composed of ten or twelve persons, with each a gun 

30 upon his shoulder. Their guise, the moment it was perceived, 
dissipated all my apprehensions. 

They came within the distance of a few paces before they 
discovered me. One stopped, and, bespeaking the attention of 
his followers, called to know who was there. I answered that 



THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD 67 

I was a friend who entreated their assistance. I shall not paint 
their astonishment when, on coming nearer, they beheld me 
surrounded by the arms and dead bodies of my enemies. 

I sat upon the ground, supporting my head with my left hand, 
and resting on my knee the stock of a heavy musket. My 5 
countenance was wan and haggard, my neck and bosom were 
dyed in blood, and my limbs, almost stripped by the brambles 
of their slender covering, were lacerated by a thousand wounds. 
Three savages, two of whom were steeped in gore, lay at a small 
distance, with the traces of recent life on their visages. Hard 1° 
by was the girl, venting her anguish in the deepest groans and 
entreating relief from the new-comers. 

One of the company, on approaching the girl, betrayed the 
utmost perturbation. "Good God!" he cried, "is this a dream? 
Can it be you? Speak!" 15 

"Ah, my father! my father!" answered she, "it is I indeed." 

The company, attracted by this dialogue, crowded round the 
girl, whom her father, clasping in his arms, lifted from the 
ground and pressed, in a transport of joy, to his breast. This 
delight was succeeded by solicitude respecting her condition. 2 
She could only answer his inquiries by complaining that her 
side was bruised to pieces. "How came you here?" — "Who 
hurt you ?"— "Where did the Indians carry you?"— were ques- 
tions to which she could make no reply but by sobs and plaints. 

My own calamities were forgotten in contemplating the fond- 2 5 
ness and compassion of the man for his child. I derived new 
joy from reflecting that I had not abandoned her, and that she 
owed her preservation* to my efforts. The inquiries which the 
girl was unable to answer were now put to me. Every one inter- 
rogated me who I was, whence I had come, and what had given 30 
rise to this bloody contest. 

I was not willing to expatiate on my story. The spirit which 
had hitherto sustained me began now to subside. My strength 
ebbed away with my blood. Tremors, lassitude, and deadly 
cold invaded me, and I fainted on the ground. 



68 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

THE KNICKERBOCKER WRITERS 



15 



20 



25 



JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE (1795-1820) 

THE AMERICAN FLAG 

When Freedom from her mountain height 

Unfurled her standard to the air, 
She tore the azure robe of night, 
And set the stars of glory there. 
5 She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 

The milky baldric of the skies, 
And striped its pure celestial white 
With streakings of the morning light ; 
Then from his mansion in the sun 
10 She called her eagle bearer down, 

And gave into his mighty hand 
The symbol of her chosen land. 



Majestic monarch of the cloud, 

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, 
To hear the tempest trumpings loud 
And see the lightning lances driven, 

When strive the warriors of the storm, 
And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven. 
Child of the sun ! to thee 'tis given 

To guard the banner of the free, 
To hover in the sulphur smoke, 
To bid its blendings shine afar, 
Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 

The harbingers of victory ! 

Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, 
The sign of hope and triumph high, 



THE KNICKERBOCKER WRITERS 69 

When speaks the signal trumpet tone, 
And the long line comes gleaming on. 
Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, 
Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, 
Each soldier eye shall brightly turn 
To where thy sky-born glories burn, 
And, as his springing steps advance, 
Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 
And when the cannon-mouthings loud 
Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, 
And gory sabres rise and fall 
Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, 

Then shall thy meteor glances glow, 
And cowering foes shall shrink beneath 

Each gallant arm that strikes below 
That lovely messenger of death. 

Flag of the seas ! On ocean wave 
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave; 
When death, careering, on the gale, 
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, 
And frighted waves rush wildly back 
Before the broadside's reeling rack, 
Each dying wanderer of the sea 
Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
And smile to see thy splendors fly 
In triumph o'er his closing eye. 



10 



20 



25 



Flag of the free heart's hope and home ! 

By angel hands to valor given ; 
The stars have lit the welkin dome, 

And all thy hues were born in heaven. 3 Q 



70 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Forever float that standard sheet! 

Where breathes the foe but falls before us, 
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, 

And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us ? 



FITZ-GREENE HALLECK (1790-1867) 

ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 

5 Green be the turf above thee, 

Friend of my better days ! 
None knew thee but to love thee, 
Nor named thee but to praise. 

Tears fell when thou wert dying, 
10 From eyes unused to weep, 

And long, where thou art lying, 
Will tears the cold turf steep. 

When hearts, whose truth was proven, 
Like thine, are laid in earth, 
1 5 There should a wreath be woven 

To tell the world their worth ; 

And I who woke each morrow 
To clasp thy hand in mine, 

Who shared thy joy and sorrow, 
Whose weal and woe were thine; 

It should be mine to braid it 

Around thy faded brow, 
But I've in vain essayed it, 

And feel I cannot now. 



THE KNICKERBOCKER WRITERS 71 

While memory bids me weep thee, 

Nor thoughts nor words are free, — 
The grief is fixed too deeply 

That mourns a man like thee. 



MARCO BOZZARIS 

At midnight, in his guarded tent, 5 

The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, 

Should tremble at his power : 
In dreams, through camp and court, he bore 
The trophies of a conqueror ; 1 

In dreams his song of triumph heard ; 
Then wore his monarch's signet ring : 
Then pressed that monarch's throne — a king; 
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, 

As Eden's garden bird. 



15 



At midnight, in the forest shades, 

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, 
True as the steel of their tried blades, 

Heroes in heart and hand. 
There had the Persian's thousands stood, 20 

There had the glad earth drunk their blood 

On old Platsea's day ; 
And now there breathed that haunted air 
The sons of* sires who conquered there, 
With arms to strike and soul to dare, 25 

As quick, as far as they. 

An hour passed on — the Turk awoke ; 
That bright dream was his last ; 



72 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

He woke — to hear his sentries shriek, 
"To arms ! they come ! the Greek ! the Greek !" 
He woke — to die midst flame, and smoke, 
And shout, and groan, and saber stroke, 
5 And death shots falling thick and fast 

As lightnings from the mountain cloud; 
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 

Bozzaris cheer his band: 
"Strike — till the last armed foe expires ; 
Strike — for your altars and your fires ; 
Strike — for the green graves of your sires ; 

God — and your native land !" 

They fought — like brave men, long and well ; 

They piled that ground with Moslem slain, 
15 They conquered — but Bozzaris fell, 

Bleeding at every vein. 
His few surviving comrades saw 
His smile when rang their proud hurrah, 

And the red field was won ; 
2 Then saw in death his eyelids close 

Calmly, as to a night's repose, 

Like flowers at set of sun. 

Come to the bridal-chamber, Death ! 

Come to the mother's, when she feels, 
For the first time, her first-born's breath ; 

Come when the blessed seals 
That close the pestilence are broke, 
And crowded cities wail its stroke; 
Come in consumption's ghastly form, 
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm ; 
Come when the heart beats high and warm 

With banquet song, and dance, and wine; 



THE KNICKERBOCKER WRITERS 73 

And thou art terrible — the tear, 
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, 
And all we know, or dream, or fear 
Of agony are thine. 

But to the hero, when his sword 5 

Has won the battle for the free, 
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word; 
And in its hollow tones are heard 

The thanks of millions yet to be. 
Come, when his task of fame is wrought — 1 ° 

Come, with her laurel leaf, blood-bought — 

Come in her crowning hour — and then 
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light 
To him is welcome as the sight 

Of sky and stars to prisoned men ; 1 5 

Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 
Of brother in a foreign land; 
Thy summons welcome as the cry 
That told the Indian isles were nigh 

To the world-seeking Genoese, 20 

When the land wind, from woods of palm, 
And orange groves, and fields of balm, 

Blew o'er the Haytian seas. 

Bozzaris! with the storied brave 

Greece nurtured in her glory's time, 2 5 

Rest thee — there is no prouder grave, 

Even in her own proud clime. 
She wore no funeral weeds for thee, 

Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume 
Like torn branch from death's leafless tree 3 ° 

In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, 

The heartless luxury of the tomb ; 



74 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

But she remembers thee as one 
Long loved and for a season gone ; 
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, 
Her marble wrought, her music breathed ; 
5 For thee she rings the birthday bells ; 

Of thee her babe's first lisping tells ; 
For thine her evening prayer is said 
At palace couch and cottage bed ; 
Her soldier, closing with the foe, 

1 ° Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow ; 

His plighted maiden, when she fears 
For him the joy of her young years, 
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears ; 

And she, the mother of thy boys, 

1 5 Though in her eye and faded cheek 

Is read the grief she will not speak, 

The memory of her buried joys, 
And even she who gave thee birth 
Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth, 

2 Talk of thy doom without a sigh ; 

For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's : 
One of the few, the immortal names, 
That were not born to die. 



WASHINGTON IRVING 
Born in New York, 1783; died at Sunnyside, on the Hudson River, 1859 

RIP VAN WINKLE 

Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember 
2 5 the Catskill Mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the 
great Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the 
river, swelling up to a noble height and lording it over the sur- 
rounding country. Every change of season, every change of 



THE KNICKERBOCKER WRITERS 75 

weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces some change in 
the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are 
regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect baro- 
meters. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed 
in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear 5 
evening sky; but sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is 
cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their 
summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and 
light up like a crown of glory. 

At the foot of these fairy mountains the voyager may have 1° 
descried the light smoke curling up from a village whose shingle 
roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the 
upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. 
It is a little village of great antiquity, having been founded by 
some of the Dutch colonists in the early times of the province, 15 
just about the beginning of the government of the good Peter 
Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace!), and there were some of 
the houses of the original settlers standing within a few years,, 
built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland, with lattice 
windows, and gable fronts surmounted with weather-cocks. 2 

In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, 
to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather- 
beaten), there lived many years since, while the country was 
yet a province of Great Britain, a simple, good-natured fellow of 
the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van 2 5 
Winkles who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter 
Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort Christina. 
He inherited, however, but little of the martial character of his 
ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple, good-natured 
man; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor and an obedient, hen- 3 
pecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be 
owing that meekness of spirit which gained him such universal 
popularity ; for those men are most apt to be obsequious and con- 
ciliating abroad who are under the discipline of shrews at home. 



76 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable in the 
fiery furnace of domestic tribulation; and a curtain lecture is 
worth all the sermons in the world for teaching the virtues of 
patience and long-suffering. A termagant wife may, therefore, 
5 in some respects be considered a tolerable blessing; and if so, 
Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed. 

Certain it is that he was a great favorite among all the good 
wives of the village, who, as usual with the amiable sex took his 
part in all family squabbles, and never failed, whenever they 

1® talked those matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all 
the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, too, 
would shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at 
their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and 
shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and 

15 Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was 

surrounded by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clambering 

on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with impunity ; 

and not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighborhood. 

The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable aver- 

2 sion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from the 
want of assiduity or perseverance; for he would sit on a wet 
rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish 
all day without a murmur, even though he should not be 
encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece 

25 on his shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods and 
swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or 
wild pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a neighbor even 
in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all country 
frolics for husking Indian corn or building stone fences. The 

30 women of the village, too, used to employ him to run their 
errands, and to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging 
husbands would not do for them: in a word, Rip was ready to 
attend to anybody's business but his own ; but as to doing family 
duty and keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible. 



THE KNICKERBOCKER WRITERS 77 

In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm; 
it was the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole 
country; everything about it went wrong, and would go wrong, 
in spite of him. His fences were continually falling to pieces; 
his cow would either go astray or get among the cabbages ; weeds 5 
were sure to grow quicker in his fields than anywhere else ; the 
rain always made a point of setting in just as he had some out- 
door work to do ; so that though his patrimonial estate had 
dwindled away under his management, acre by acre, until there 
was little more left than a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, 10 
yet it was the worst-conditioned farm in the neighborhood. 

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged 
to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness, 
promised to inherit the habits, with the old clothes of his father. 
He was generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother's heels, 15 
equipped in a pair of his father's cast-off galligaskins, which 
he had much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does 
her train in bad weather. 

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, 
of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat 2 
white bread or brown, whichever can be got with least thought 
or trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than work for 
a pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled life away 
in perfect contentment; but his wife kept continually dinning in 
his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was 2 5 
bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her tongue 
was incessantly going, and everything he said or did was sure 
to produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but one 
way of replying to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent 
use, had grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook 3 
his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, 
always provoked a fresh volley from his wife, so that he was 
fain to draw off his forces, and take to the outside of the house — 
the only side which, in truth, belongs to a henpecked husband. 



78 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as 
much henpecked as his master ; for Dame Van Winkle regarded 
them as companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with 
an evil eye, as the cause of his master's so often going astray. 
5 True it is, in all points of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was 
as courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods — but what 
courage can withstand the ever-during and all-besetting terrors 
of a woman's tongue? The moment Wolf entered the house his 
crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground, or curled between his 

10 legs; he sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many a side- 
long glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of 
a broomstick or ladle he would fly to the door with yelping 
precipitation. 

Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years 

!5 of matrimony rolled on; a tart temper never mellows with age, 
and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener by 
constant use. For a long while he used to console himself, when 
driven from home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the 
sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the village, which 

2 held its sessions on a bench before a small inn, designated by a 
rubicund portrait of His Majesty George the Third. Here they 
used to sit in the shade through a long lazy summer's day, talking 
listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about 
nothing. But it would have been worth any statesman's money 

2 5 to have heard the profound discussions which sometimes took 

place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands 
from some passing traveler. How solemnly they would listen 
to the contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the 
schoolmaster, a dapper, learned little man, who was not to be 

3 daunted by the mobt gigantic word in the dictionary; and how 

sagely they would deliberate upon public events some months 
after they had taken place ! 

The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by 
Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the 



THE KNICKERBOCKER WRITERS 79 

inn, at the door of which he took his seat from morning till 
night, just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun and keep in the 
shade of a large tree; so that the neighbors could tell the hour 
by his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true, he 
was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His 5 
adherents, however (for every great man has his adherents), 
perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather his opinions. 
When anything that was read or related displeased him, he was 
observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and send forth short, 
frequent and angry puffs; but when pleased, he would inhale 10 
the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid 
clouds, and sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, and 
letting the fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would gravely 
nod his head in token of perfect approbation. 

From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length 15 
routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon 
the tranquility of the assemblage and call the members all to 
nought ; nor was that august personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, 
sacred from the daring tongue of this terrible virago, who 
charged him outright with encouraging her husband in habits 2 
of idleness. 

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his 
only alternative, to escape from the labor of the farm and clamor 
of his wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the 
woods. Here he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of 2 5 
a tree and share the contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom 
he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. "Poor 
Wolf," he would say, "thy*mistress leads thee a dog's life of it; 
but never mind, my lad, while I live thou shalt never want a 
friend to stand by thee!" Wolf would wag his tail, look wist- 3 
fully in his master's face, and if dogs can feel pity, I verily 
believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart. 

In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had 
unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Catskill 



80 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel shooting, 
and the still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with the reports 
of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the 
afternoon, on a green knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that 
5 crowned the brow of the precipice. From an opening between 
the trees he could overlook all the lower country for many a 
mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, 
far, far below him, moving on its silent but majestic course, with 
the reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here 

10 and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself 
in the blue highlands. 

On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, 
wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with fragments from 
the impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays 

15 of the setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this scene; 
evening was gradually advancing; the mountains began to throw 
their long blue shadows over the valleys ; he saw that it would be 
dark long before he could reach the village, and he heaved a 
heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame 

2 Van Winkle. 

As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance, 
hallooing, "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!" He looked 
around, but could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary 
flight across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have 

25 deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he heard the 
same cry ring through the still evening air: "Rip Van Winkle! 
Rip Van Winkle !" — at the same time Wolf bristled up his back, 
and, giving a low growl, skulked to his master's side, looking 
fearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehen- 

30 sion stealing over him; he looked anxiously in the same direction, 
and perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rock, and 
bending under the weight of something he carried on his back. 
He was surprised to see any human being in this lonely and 



THE KNICKERBOCKER WRITERS 81 

unfrequented place, but supposing it to be some one of the neigh- 
borhood in need of assistance, he hastened down to yield it. 

On nearer approach, he was still more surprised at the singu- 
larity of the stranger's appearance. He was a short, square-built 
old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress 5 
was of the antique Dutch fashion — a cloth jerkin strapped around 
the waist — several pair of breeches, the outer one of ample 
volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the sides and 
bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulders a stout keg, 
that seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach 10 
and assist him with the load. Though rather shy and distrustful 
of this new acquaintance, Rip complied with his usual alacrity; 
and mutually relieving one another, they clambered up a narrow 
gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they 
ascended, Rip every now and then heard long rolling peals, like 15 
distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or 
rather cleft between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path 
conducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing it to be 
the muttering of one of those transient thunder-showers which 
often take place in mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing 2 
through the ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small amphi- 
theater, surrounded by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks 
of which impending trees shot their branches, so that you only 
caught glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud. 
During the whole time Rip and his companion had labored on in 2 5 
silence, for though the former marveled greatly what could be 
the object of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet 
there was something st/ange and incomprehensible about the 
unknown that inspired awe and checked familiarity. 

On entering the amphitheater, new objects of wonder pre- 30 
sented themselves. On a level spot in the center was a company 
of odd-looking personages playing at ninepins. They were dressed 
in a quaint, outlandish fashion : some wore short doublets, others 
jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and most had enormous 



10 



15 



82 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

breeches, of similar style with that of the guide's. Their visages, 
too, were peculiar : one had a large head, broad face, and small, 
piggish eyes; the face of another seemed to consist entirely of 
nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat set off with 
a little red cock's tail. They all had beards, of various shapes and 
colors. There was one who seemed to be the commander. He 
was a stout old gentleman, with a weatherbeaten countenance ; he 
wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat 
and feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses in 
them. The whole group reminded Rip of the figures in an old 
Flemish painting, in the parlor of Dominie Van Shaick, the 
village parson, and which had been brought over from Holland 
at the time of the settlement. 

What seemed particularly odd to Rip was that though these 
folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the 
gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, 
the most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. 
Nothing interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of 
the balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the 

20 mountains like rumbling peals of thunder. 

As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly 
desisted from their play and stared at him with such fixed 
statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-luster counten- 
ances, that his heart turned within him and his knees smote 

25 together. His companion now emptied the contents of the keg 
into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the com- 
pany. He obeyed with fear and trembling; they quaffed the 
liquor in profound silence, and then returned to their game. 

By degrees, Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even 
ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, 
which he found had much of the flavor of excellent Hollands. 
He was naturally a thirsty soul and was soon tempted to repeat 
the draught. One taste provoked another, and he reiterated his 
visits to the flagon so often that at length his senses were over- 



30 



THE KNICKERBOCKER WRITERS 83 

powered, his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually declined, 
and he fell into a deep sleep. 

On awakening, he found himself on the green knoll from 
whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed 
his eyes — it was a bright sunny morning. The birds were 
hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was 
wheeling aloft and breasting the pure mountain breeze. "Surely," 
thought Rip, "I have not slept here all night." He recalled the 
occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg 
of liquor — the mountain ravine — the wild retreat among the 
rocks — the woebegone party at ninepins — the flagon — "Oh! that 
flagon! that wicked flagon!" thought Rip— "what excuse shall 
I make to Dame Van Winkle?" 

He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean, well- 
oiled fowling piece, he found an old fire-lock lying by him, the 
barrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock 
worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave roysters of the 
mountain had put a trick upon him, and, having dosed him with 
liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, 
but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. 
He whistled after him and shouted his name, but all in vain ; the 
echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be 
seen. 

He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's 
gambol, and if he met with any of the party, to demand his dog 
and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, 
and wanting in his usual activity. "These mountain beds do not 
agree with me," thoftght Rip, "and if this frolic should lay me 
up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with 
Dame Van Winkle." With some difficulty he got down into the 
glen; he found the gully up which he and his companion had 
ascended the preceding evening ; but to his astonishment a moun- 
tain stream was now foaminsf down it, leaping from rock to rock 
and filling the glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, made 



84 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

shift to scramble up its sides, working his toilsome way through 
thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel and sometimes 
tripped up or entangled by the wild grapevines that twisted their 
coils and tendrils from tree to tree and spread a kind of network 
5 in his path. 

At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through 
the cliffs to the amphitheater ; but no traces of such opening 
remained. The rocks presented a high, impenetrable wall, over 
which the torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam and 

10 fell into a broad, deep basin, black from the shadows of the sur- 
rounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. 
He again called and whistled after his dog; he was only answered 
by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air about 
a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice, and who, secure in 

15 their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man's 
perplexities. What was to be done? — the morning was passing 
away, and Rip felt famished for want of his breakfast. He 
grieved to give up his dog and gun ; he dreaded to meet his wife ; 
but it would not do to starve among the mountains. He shook 

2 his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, with a heart full of 
trouble and anxiety, turned his steps homeward. 

As he approached the village, he met a number of people, but 
none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had 
thought himself acquainted with every one in the country round. 

25 Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from that to which 
he was accustomed. They all stared at him with equal marks 
of surprise, and whenever they cast their eyes upon him invari- 
ably stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture 
induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his astonish- 

30 ment, he found his beard had grown a foot long! 

He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of 
strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing 
at his gray beard. The dogs, too, none of which he recognized 
for his old acquaintances, barked at him as he passed. The very 



THE KNICKERBOCKER WRITERS 85 

village was altered; it was larger and more populous. There 
were rows of houses which he had never seen before, and those 
which had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange 
names were over the doors — strange faces at the windows — every- 
thing was strange. His mind now began to misgive him; he 5 
doubted whether both he and the world around him were not 
bewitched. Surely this was his native village, which he had left 
but the day before. There stood the Catskill Mountains — there 
ran the silver Hudson at a distance — there was every hill and 
dale precisely as it had always been — Rip was sorely perplexed — 1° 
"That flagon last night," thought he, "has addled my poor head 
sadly !" 

It was with some difficulty he found the way to his own 
house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every 
moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He 15 
found the house gone to decay — the roof fallen in, the windows 
shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A half-starved dog that 
looked like Wolf was skulking about it. Rip called him by 
name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. 
This was an unkind cut, indeed — "My very dog," sighed poor 20 
Rip, "has forgotten me!" 

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van 
Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, 
and apparently abandoned. This desolateness overcame all his 
connubial fears — he called loudly for his wife and children — 25 
the lonely chambers rang for a moment with his voice, and then 
all again was silence. 

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the 

* 

little village inn — but it, too, was gone. A large rickety wooden 
building stood in its place, with great gaping windows, some of 30 
them broken and mended with old hats and petticoats, and over 
the door was painted, "The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." 
Instead of the great tree which used to shelter the quiet little 
Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall naked pole, with 



86 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

something on the top that looked like a red nightcap, and from 
it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assemblage of 
stars and stripes — all this was strange and incomprehensible. He 
recognized on the sign, however, the ruby face of King George, 
5 under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe, but even 
this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed 
for one of blue and buff, a sword was stuck in the hand 
instead of a scepter, the head was decorated with a cocked 
hat, and underneath was painted in large characters, General 

10 Washington. 

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none 
whom Rip recollected. The very character of the people seemed 
changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about 
it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquility. He 

15 looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, 
double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco smoke 
instead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, 
doling forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of 
these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow, with his pockets full of 

20 handbills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of citizens — 
election — members of Congress — liberty — Bunker's Hill — heroes 
of '76 — and other words that were a perfect Babylonish jargon 
to the bewildered Van Winkle. 

The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, his rusty 

26 fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and the army of women and 
children that had gathered at his heels, soon attracted the atten- 
tion of the tavern politicians. They crowded around him, eyeing 
him from head to foot with great curiosity. The orator bustled 
up to him, and drawing him partly aside, inquired "on which side 

30 he voted?" Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but 
busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and rising on tiptoe, 
inquired in his ear, "whether he was Federal or Democrat." 
Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend the question; when a 
knowing, self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, 



10 



THE KNICKERBOCKER WRITERS 87 

made his way through the crowd, putting them to the right and 
left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before 
Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting on his cane, 
his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very 
soul, demanded, in an austere tone, "what brought him to the 
election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and 
whether he meant to breed a riot in the village?" "Alas ! gentle- 
men," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, "I am a poor quiet man, 
a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the king, God bless 
him!" 

Here a general shout burst from the bystanders — "A Tory! 
a Tory ! a spy ! a refugee ! hustle him ! away with him !" It 
was with great difficulty that the self-important man in the 
cocked hat restored order ; and having assumed a tenfold austerity 
of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit what he came 15 
there for, and whom he was seeking. The poor man humbly 
assured him that he meant no harm ; but merely came in search 
of some neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern. 

"Well — who are they ? — name them." 

Rip bethought himself a moment, and then inquired, "Where's 2 
Nicholas Vedder?" 

There was silence for a little while, when an old man replied 
in a thin, piping voice, "Nicholas Vedder? why, he is dead and 
gone these eighteen years! There was a wooden tombstone in 
the churchyard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotten 2 5 
and gone, too." 

"Where's Brom Dutcher?" 

"Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war ; 
some say he was killed at the battle of Stony Point — others say 
he was drowned in a squall, at the foot of Antony's Nose. I 30 
don't know — he never came back again." 

"Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?" 

"He went off to the wars, too, was a great militia general, 
and is now in Congress." 



10 



88 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Rip's heart died away, at hearing of these sad changes in his 
home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. 
Every answer puzzled him, too, by treating of such enormous 
lapses of time and of matters which he could not understand: 
war — Congress — Stony Point — he had no courage to ask after 
any more friends, but cried out in despair, ''Does nobody here 
know Rip Van Winkle?" 

"Oh, Rip Van Winkle !" exclaimed two or three; "Oh, to 
be sure! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the 



Rip looked and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as 
he went up the mountain : apparently as lazy, and certainly as 
ragged. The poor fellow was now completely confounded. He 
doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or another 

16 man. In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the cocked 
hat demanded who he was, and what was his name ? 

"God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end; "I'm not 
myself — I'm somebody else — that's me yonder — no — that's some- 
body else, got into my shoes — I was myself last night, but I fell 

20 asleep on the mountain, and they've changed my gun, and every- 
thing's changed, and I'm changed, and I can't tell what's my 
name, or who I am I" 

The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod, wink 
significantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There 

25 was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old 
fellow from doing mischief; at the very suggestion of which, 
the self-important man in the cocked hat retired with some pre- 
cipitation. At this critical moment a fresh, likely woman pressed 
through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She 

30 had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, 
began to cry. "Hush, Rip," criea she, "hush, you little fool, the 
old man won't hurt you." The name of the child, the air of the 
mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recollec- 



10 



THE KNICKERBOCKER WRITERS 89 

tions in his mind. "What is your name, my good woman?" 
asked he. 

"Judith Gardenier." 

"And your father's name?" 

"Ah, poor man, his name was Rip Van Winkle; it's twenty 
years since he went away from home with his gun, and never 
has been heard of since — his dog came home without him; but 
whether he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, 
nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl." 

Rip had but one question more to ask; but he put it with a 
faltering voice : — 

"Where's your mother?" 

"Oh, she, too, had died but a short time since ; she broke a 
blood vessel in a fit of passion at a New England peddler." 

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. *5 
The honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught 
his daughter and her child in his arms. "I am your father!" 
cried he— "Young Rip Van Winkle once— old Rip Van Winkle 
now ! — Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle !" 

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from 20 
among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and, peering under 
it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, "Sure enough ! it is Rip 
Van Winkle — it is himself. Welcome home again, old neighbor. 
Why, where have you been these twenty long years?" 

Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had 25 
been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared when they 
heard it; some were seen to wink at each other, and put their 
tongues in their cheeks ; and the self-important man in the cocked 
hat, who, when the alarm was over, had returned to the field, 
screwed down the corners of his mouth, and shook his head — 
upon which there was a general shaking of the head throughout 
the assemblage. 

It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter 
Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He 



30 



15 



90 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

was a descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one 
of the earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the most 
ancient inhabitant of the village and well versed in all the wonder- 
ful events and traditions of the neighborhood. He recollected 
& Rip at once and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory 
manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, handed 
down from his ancestor the historian, that the Catskill Moun- 
tains had always been haunted by strange beings. That it was 
affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of 

10 the river and country, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty 
years, with his crew of the Half-Moon, being permitted in this 
way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise and keep a guardian 
eye upon the river, and the great city called by his name. That 
his father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses playing 
at ninepins in a hollow of the mountain; and that he himself 
had heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of their balls, like 
distant peals of thunder. 

To make a long story short, the company broke up and 
returned to the more important concerns of the election. Rip's 

20 daughter took him home to live with her; she had a snug, well- 
furnished house, and a stout cheery farmer for a husband, whom 
Rip recollected for one of the urchins that used to climb upon 
his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, 
seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on the 

25 farm; but evinced an hereditary disposition to attend to anything 
else but his business. 

Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon found 
many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for the 
wear and tear of time ; and preferred making friends among the 

30 rising generation, with whom he soon grew into great favor. 

Having nothing to do at home and being arrived at that happy 
age when a man can do nothing with impunity, he took his place 
once more on the bench at the inn door, and was reverenced as 
one of the patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old 



THE KNICKERBOCKER WRITERS 91 

times "before the war." It was some time before he could get 
into the regular track of gossip, or could be made to comprehend 
the strange events that had taken place during his torpor. How 
that there had been a revolutionary war — that the country had 
thrown off the yoke of old England — and that, instead of being 5 
a subject of His Majesty, George III., he was now a free citizen 
of the United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician; the 
changes of states and empires made but little impression on him ; 
but there was one species of despotism under which he had long 
groaned, and that was — petticoat government; happily, that was 10 
at an end; he had got his neck out of the yoke of matrimony 
and could go in and out whenever he pleased, without dreading 
the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her name was 
mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, 
and cast up his eyes; which might pass either for an expression 15 
of resignation to his fate, or joy at his deliverance. 

He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at 
Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on 
some points every time he told it, which was, doubtless, owing 
to his having so recently awaked. It at last settled down pre- 2 
cisely to the tale I have related, and not a man, woman or child 
in the neighborhood but knew it by heart. Some always pre- 
tended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been 
out of his head, and that was one point on which he always 
remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost 2 5 
universally gave it full credit. Even to this day they never hear 
a thunderstorm of a summer afternoon about the Catskills, but 
they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of 
ninepins; and it is a common wish of all henpecked husbands in 
the neighborhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that 3 
they might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's 
flagon. 



92 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 



JAMES FENIMORE COOPER 
Born in Burlington, N. J., 1789; died in Cooperstown, N. Y., 1851 

RUNNING THE GAUNTLET 

From The Last of the Mohicans 

It is unusual to find an encampment of the natives, like those 
of the more instructed whites, guarded by the presence of armed 
men. Well informed of the approach of every danger while it is 
yet at a distance, the Indian generally rests secure under his 
5 knowledge of the signs of the forest and the long and difficult 
paths that separate him from those he has most reason to dread. 
But the enemy who, by any lucky concurrence of accidents, has 
found means to elude the vigilance of the scouts, will seldom 
meet with sentinels nearer home to sound the alarm. In addition 

10 to this general usage, the tribes friendly to the French knew too 
well the weight of the blow that had just been struck to appre- 
hend any immediate danger from the hostile nations that were 
tributary to the crown of Britain. 

When Duncan and David, therefore, found themselves in the 

15 centre of the children, who played the antics already mentioned, 
it was without the least previous intimation of their approach. 
But so soon as they were observed the whole of the juvenile pack 
raised, by common consent, a shrill and warning whoop; and 
then sank, as it were, by magic, from before the sight of their 

2 visitors. The naked, tawny bodies of the crouching urchins 
blended so nicely at that hour with the withered herbage that 
at first it seemed as if the earth had, in truth, swallowed up their 
forms ; though when surprise permitted Duncan to bend his look 
more curiously about the spot, he found it everywhere met by 

2 5 dark, quick, and rolling eyeballs-. 

Gathering no encouragement from this startling presage of 
the nature of the scrutiny he was likely to undergo from the 
more mature judgments of the men, there was an instant when 






THE KNICKERBOCKER WRITERS 93 

the young soldier would have retreated. It was, however, too 
late to appear to hesitate. The cry of the children had drawn 
a dozen warriors to the door of the nearest lodge, where they 
stood clustered in a dark and savage group, gravely awaiting 
the nearer approach of those who had unexpectedly come among 5 
them. 

David, in some measure familiarized to the scene, led the way, 
with a steadiness that no slight obstacle was likely to disconcert, 
into this very building. It was the principal edifice of the village, 
though roughly constructed of the bark and branches of trees; 10 
being the lodge in which the tribe held its councils and public 
meetings during their temporary residence on the borders of 
the English province. Duncan found it difficult to assume the 
necessary appearance of unconcern, as he brushed the dark and 
powerful frames of the savages who thronged its threshold; 15 
but, conscious that his existence depended on his presence of 
mind, he trusted to the discretion of his companion, whose foot- 
steps he closely followed, endeavoring, as he proceeded, to rally 
his thoughts for the occasion. His blood curdled when he found 
himself in absolute contact with such fierce and implacable 2 
enemies; but he so far mastered his feelings as to pursue his 
way into the centre of the lodge with an exterior that did not 
betray the weakness. Imitating the example of the deliberate 
Gamut, he drew a bundle of fragrant brush from beneath a pile 
that filled the corner of the hut and seated himself in silence. 2 5 

So soon as their visitor had passed, the observant warriors 
fell back from the entrance, and, arranging themselves about him, 
they seemed patiently to await the moment when it might com- 
port with the dignity of the stranger to speak. By far the 
greater number stood leaning, in lazy, lounging attitudes, against 30 
the upright posts that supported the crazy building, while three 
or four of the oldest and most distinguished of the chiefs placed 
themselves on the earth a little more in advance. 



94 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

A flaring torch was burning in the place and sent its red glare 
from face to face and figure to figure as it waved in the currents 
of air. Duncan profited by its light to read the probable char- 
acter of his reception, in the countenances of his hosts. But 
5 his ingenuity availed him little against the cold artifices of the 
people he had encountered. The chiefs in front scarce cast a 
glance at his person, keeping their eyes on the ground, with an 
air that might have been intended for respect, but which it was 
quite easy to construe into distrust. The men in shadow were 

10 less reserved. Duncan soon detected their searching but stolen 
looks, which, in truth, scanned his person and attire inch by inch ; 
leaving no emotion of the countenance, no gesture, no line of the 
paint, nor even the fashion of a garment unheeded and without 
comment. 

15 At length one whose hair was beginning to be sprinkled with 

gray, but whose sinewy limbs and firm tread announced that he 
was still equal to the duties of manhood, advanced out of the 
gloom of a corner, whither he had probably posted himself to 
make his observations unseen, and spoke. He used the language 

20 of the Wyandots, or Hurons ; his words were, consequently, unin- 
telligible to Heyward, though they seemed, by the gestures that 
accompanied them, to be uttered more in courtesy than anger. 
The latter shook his head, and made a gesture indicative of his 
inability to reply. 

2 5 "Do none of my brothers speak the French or the English?" 

he said in the former language, looking about him from counte- 
nance to countenance in hopes of finding a nod of assent. 

Though more than one had turned, as if to catch the mean- 
ing of his words, they remained unanswered. 

30 "I should be grieved to think," continued Duncan, speaking 

slowly and using the simplest French of which he was the master, 
"to believe that none of this wise and brave nation understand 
the language that the 'Grand Monarque' uses when he talks to 



THE KNICKERBOCKER WRITERS 95 

his children. His heart would be heavy did he believe his red 
warriors paid him so little respect !" 

A long and grave pause succeeded, during which no move- 
ment of a limb, nor any expression of an eye, betrayed the 
impression produced by his remark. Duncan, who knew that 6 
silence was a virtue among his hosts, gladly had recourse to the 
custom, in order to arrange his ideas. At length the same 
warrior who had before addressed him replied, by dryly demand- 
ing in the language of the Canadas : — 

"When our Great Father speaks to his people, is it with the 10 
tongue of a Huron ?" 

"He knows no difference in his children, whether the color 
of the skin be red, or black, or white," returned Duncan, 
evasively ; "though chiefly is he satisfied with the brave Hurons." 

"In what manner will he speak," demanded the wary chief, 15 
"when the runners count -to him the scalps which five nights 
ago grew on the heads of the Yengeese?" 

"They were his enemies," said Duncan, shuddering involun- 
tarily; "and doubtless he will say, 'it is good; my Hurons are 
very gallant/ " 20 

"Our Canada father does not think it. Instead of looking 
forward to reward his Indians, his eyes are turned backward. 
He sees the dead Yengeese, but no Huron. What can this 
mean ?" 

"A great chief, like him, has more thoughts than tongues. 25 
He looks to see that no enemies are on his trail." 

"The canoe of a dead warrior will not float on the Horican," 
returned the savage, gloomily. "His ears are open to the Dela- 
wares, who are not our friends, and they fill them with lies." 

"It cannot be. See ; he has bid me, who am a man that knows 30 
the art of healing, to go to his children, the red Hurons of the 
great lakes, and ask if any are sick !" 

Another silence succeeded this annunciation of the character 
Duncan had assumed. Every eye was simultaneously bent on 



96 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

his person, as if to inquire into the truth or falsehood of the 
declaration, with an intelligence and keenness that caused the 
subject of their scrutiny to tremble for the result. He was, 
however, relieved again by the former speaker. 
5 "Do the cunning men of the Canadas paint their skins?" the 

Huron coldly continued; "we have heard them boast that their 
faces were pale." 

"When an Indian chief comes among his white fathers," 
returned Duncan, with great steadiness, "he lays aside his buffalo 

10 robe, to carry the shirt that is offered him. My brothers have 
given me paint, and I wear it." 

A low murmur of applause announced that the compliment 
to the tribe was favorably received. The elderly chief made a 
gesture of commendation, which was answered by most of his 

15 companions, who each threw forth a hand and uttered a brief 
exclamation of pleasure. Duncan began to breathe more freely, 
believing that the weight of his examination was past; and as 
he had already prepared a simple and probable tale to support his 
pretended occupation, his hopes of ultimate success grew brighter. 

20 After a silence of a few moments, as if adjusting his thoughts, 

in order to make a suitable answer to the declaration their guest 
had just given, another warrior arose and placed himself in an 
attitude to speak. While his lips were yet in the act of parting, 
a low but fearful sound arose from the forest, and was imme- 

25 diately succeeded by a high, shrill yell, that was drawn out until 
it equaled the longest and most plaintive howl of the wolf. The 
sudden and terrible interruption caused Duncan to start from his 
seat, unconscious of everything but the effect produced by so 
frightful a cry. At the same moment, the warriors glided in a 

30 body from the lodge, and the outer air was filled with loud shouts 
that nearly drowned those awful sounds which were still ringing 
beneath the arches of the woods. Unable to command himself 
any longer, the youth broke from the place and presently stood 
in the centre of a disorderly throng that included nearly every- 



THE KNICKERBOCKER WRITERS 97 

thing having life within the limits of the encampment. Men, 
women, and children; the aged, the infirm, the active, and the 
strong, were alike abroad, some exclaiming aloud, others clapping 
their hands with a joy that seemed frantic, and all expressing 
their savage pleasure in some unexpected event. Though 5 
astounded, at first, by the uproar, Heyward was soon enabled 
to find its solution by the scene that followed. 

There yet lingered sufficient light in the heavens to exhibit 
those bright openings among the tree-tops, where different paths 
left the clearing to enter the depths of the wilderness. Beneath 10 
one of them a line of warriors issued from the woods and 
advanced slowly toward the dwellings. One in front bore a 
short pole, on which, as it afterward appeared, were suspended 
several human scalps. The startling sounds that Duncan had 
heard were what the whites have not inappropriately called the 15 
"death halloo" ; and each repetition of the cry was intended to 
announce to the tribe the fate of an enemy. Thus far the 
knowledge of Heyward assisted him in the explanation; and as 
he now knew that the interruption was caused by the unlooked- 
for return of a successful war-party, every disagreeable sensa- 20 
tion was quieted in inward congratulation for the opportune 
relief and insignificance it conferred on himself. 

When at the distance of a few hundred feet from the lodges, 
the newly arrived warriors halted. Their plaintive and terrific 
cry, which was intended to represent equally the waitings of the 2 5 
dead and the triumph of the victors, had entirely ceased. One 
of their number now called aloud, in words that were far from 
appalling, though not more intelligible to those for whose ears 
they were intended than their expressive yells. It would be 
difficult to convey a suitable idea of the savage ecstasy with 30 
which the news thus imparted was received. The whole encamp- 
ment in a moment became a scene of the most violent bustle 
and commotion. The warriors drew their knives, and flourish- 
ing them, they arranged themselves in two lines, forming a lane 



98 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 






10 



15 



that extended from the war-party to the lodges. The squaws 
seized clubs, axes, or whatever weapon of offence first offered 
itself to their hands, and rushed eagerly to act their part in the 
cruel game that was at hand. Even the children would not be 
excluded ; but boys, little able to wield the instruments, tore the 
tomahawks from the belts of their fathers and stole into the 
ranks, apt imitators of the savage traits exhibited by their 
parents. 

Large piles of brush lay scattered about the clearing, and a 
wary and aged squaw was occupied in firing as many as might 
serve to light the coming exhibition. As the flame arose, its 
power exceeded that of the parting day and assisted to render 
objects at the same time more distinct and more hideous. The 
whole scene formed a striking picture, whose frame was com- 
posed of the dark and tall border of pines. The warriors just 
arrived were the most distant figures. A little in advance stood 
two men, who were apparently selected from the rest as the 
principal actors in what was to follow. The light was not strong 
enough to render their features distinct, though it was quite 
evident that they were governed by very different emotions. 
While one stood erect and firm, prepared to meet his fate like 
a hero, the other bowed his head, as if palsied by terror or stricken 
with shame. The high-spirited Duncan felt a powerful impulse 
of admiration and pity toward the former, though no opportunity 
could offer to exhibit his generous emotions. He watched his 
slightest movement, however, with eager eyes; and as he traced 
the fine outline of his admirably proportioned and active frame, 
he endeavored to persuade himself that if the powers of man, 
seconded by such noble resolution, could bear one harmless 
through so severe a trial, the youthful captive before him might 
hope for success in the hazardous race he was about to run. 
Insensibly the young man drew nigher to the swarthy lines of 
the Hurons and scarcely breathed, so intense became his interest 
in the spectacle. Just then the signal yell was given, and the 



25 



30 



THE KNICKERBOCKER WRITERS 99 

momentary quiet which had preceded it was broken by a burst 
of cries that far exceeded any before heard. The most abject 
of the two victims continued motionless; but the other bounded 
from the place at the cry with the activity and swiftness of a 
deer. Instead of rushing through the hostile lines, as had been 5 
expected, he just entered the dangerous defile, and before time 
was given for a single blow, turned short, and leaping the heads 
of a row of children, he gained at once the exterior and safer 
side of the formidable array. The artifice was answered by a 
hundred voices raised in imprecations; and the whole of the 10 
excited multitude broke from their order and spread themselves 
about the place in wild confusion. 

A dozen blazing piles now shed their lurid brightness on the 
place, which resembled some unhallowed and supernatural arena, 
in which malicious demons had assembled to act their bloody and 15 
lawless rites. The forms in the background looked like unearthly 
beings, gliding before the eye and cleaving the air with frantic 
and unmeaning gestures; while the savage passions of such as 
passed the flames were rendered fearfully distinct by the gleams 
that shot athwart their inflamed visages. 20 

It will easily be understood that amid such a concourse of 
vindictive enemies no breathing time was allowed the fugitive. 
There was a single moment when it seemed as if he would have 
reached the forest, but the whole body of his captors threw them- 
selves before him and drove him back into the centre of his 25 
relentless persecutors. Turning like a headed deer, he shot, 
with the swiftness of an arrow, through a pillar of forked flame, 
and passing the whole multitude harmless, he appeared on the 
opposite side of the clearing. Here, too, he was met and turned 
by a few of the older and more subtle of the Hurons. Once 30 
more he tried the throng, as if seeking safety in its blindness, and 
then several moments succeeded, during which Duncan believed 
the active and courageous young stranger was lost. 

Nothing could be distinguished but a dark mass of human 



100 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

forms tossed and involved in inexplicable confusion. Arms, 
gleaming knives, and formidable clubs appeared above them, but 
the blows were evidently given at random. The awful effect 
was heightened by the piercing shrieks of the women and the 
5 fierce yells of the warriors. Now and then Duncan caught a 
glimpse of a light form cleaving the air in some desperate bound, 
and he rather hoped than believed that the captive yet retained 
the command of his astonishing powers of activity. Suddenly 
the multitude rolled backward and approached the spot where he 

10 himself stood. The heavy body in the rear pressed upon the 
women and children in front and bore them to the earth. The 
stranger reappeared in the confusion. Human power could not, 
however, much longer endure so severe a trial. Of this the 
captive seemed conscious. Profiting by the momentary opening, 
he darted from among the warriors, and made a desperate and 
what seemed to Duncan a final effort to gain the wood. As if 
aware that no danger was to be apprehended from the young 
soldier, the fugitive nearly brushed his person in his flight. A 
tall and powerful Huron, who had husbanded his forces, pressed 

20 close upon his heels and with an uplifted arm menaced a fatal 
blow. Duncan thrust forth a foot, and the shock precipitated 
the eager savage headlong, many feet in advance of his intended 
victim. Thought itself is not quicker than was the motion with 
which the latter profited by the advantage; he turned, gleamed 

25 like a meteor again before the eyes of Duncan, and at the next 
moment, when the latter recovered his recollection and gazed 
around in quest of the captive, he saw him quietly leaning against 
a small painted post, which stood before the door of the principal 
lodge. 

SO Apprehensive that the part he had taken 'in the escape might 

prove fatal to himself, Duncan left the place without delay. He 
followed the crowd, which drew nigh the lodges, gloomy and 
sullen, like any other multitude that had been disappointed in an 
execution. Curiosity, or perhaps a better feeling, induced him 









15 



THE KNICKERBOCKER WRITERS 101 

to approach the stranger. He found him, standing with one arm 
cast about the protecting post and breathing thick and hard after 
his exertions, but disdaining to permit a single sign of suffering 
to escape. His person was now protected by immemorial and 
sacred usage, until the tribe in council had deliberated and deter- 5 
mined on his fate. It was not difficult, however, to foretell the 
result, if any presage could be drawn from the feelings of those 
who crowded the place. 

There was no term of abuse known to the Huron vocabulary 
that the disappointed women did not lavishly expend on the 10 
successful stranger. Ttiev flouted at his efforts and told him, 
with bitter scoffs, that his feet were better than his hands ; and 
that he merited wings, while he knew not the use of an arrow 
or a knife. To all this the captive made no reply; but was 
content to preserve an attitude in which dignitv was singularly 
blended with disdain. Exasperated as much by his composure 
as by his good-fortune, their words became unintelligible, and 
were succeeded by shrill, piercing yells. Just then the crafty 
squaw, who had taken the necessary precaution to fire the piles, 
made her way through the throng and cleared a place for herself 20 
in front of the captive. The squalid and withered person of this 
hag might well have obtained for her the character of possessing 
more than human cunning. Throwing back her light vestment, 
she stretched forth her long skinny arm, in derision, and using 
the language of the Lenape, as more intelligible to the subject 
of her gibes, she commenced aloud : — 

"Look you, Delaware," she said, snapping her fingers in his 
face; "your nation is a race of women, and the hoe is better fitted 
to your hands than the gun. Your squaws are the mothers of 
deer ; but if a bear or a wild-cat or a serpent were born among 
you, ye would flee. The Huron girls shall make you petticoats, 
and we will find you a husband." 

A burst of savage laughter succeeded this attack, during 
which the soft and musical merriment of the younger females 



25 



30 



102 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

strangely chimed with the cracked voice of their older and more 
malignant companion. But the stranger was superior to all their 
efforts. His head was immovable ; nor did he betray the slightest 
consciousness that any were present, except when his haughty eye 
6 rolled toward the dusky forms of the warriors, who stalked in 
the background, silent and sullen observers of the scene. 

Infuriated at the self-command of the captive, the woman 
placed her arms akimbo ; and throwing herself into a posture of 
defiance, she broke out anew in a torrent of words that no art 

1° of ours could commit successfully to paper. Her breath was, 
however, expended in vain; for although distinguished in her 
nation as a proficient in the art of abuse, she was permitted to 
work herself into such a fury as actually to foam at the mouth, 
without causing a muscle to vibrate in the motionless figure of 

15 the stranger. The effect of his indifference began to extend 
itself to the other spectators; and a youngster, who was just 
quitting the condition of a boy to enter the state of manhood, 
attempted to assist the termagant by flourishing his tomahawk 
before their victim and adding his empty boasts to the taunts of 

20 the woman. Then, indeed, the captive turned his face toward 
the light, and looked down on the stripling with an expression 
that was superior to contempt. At the next moment he resumed 
his quiet and reclining- attitude against the post. But the change 
of posture had permitted Duncan to exchange glances with the 

25 firm and piercing eyes of Uncas. 

^ Breathless with amazement and heavily oppressed with the 
critical^ situation of his friend, Heyward recoiled before the look, 
trembling lest its meaning might, in some unknown manner, 
hasten the prisoner's fate. There was not, however, any instant 

3 cause^for such an apprehension. Just then a warrior forced his 
way into the exasperated crowd. Motioning the woman and 
children aside with a stern gesture, he took Uncas by the arm 
and led him toward the door of the council lodge. Thither all 
the chiefs, and most of the distinguished warriors, followed; 



THE KNICKERBOCKER WRITERS 103 

among whom the anxious Heyward found means to enter with- 
out attracting any dangerous attention to himself. 

A few minutes were consumed in disposing of those present 
in a manner suitable to their rank and influence in the tribe. An 
order very similar to that adopted in the preceding interview was 5 
observed ; the aged and superior chiefs occupying the area of the 
spacious apartment, within the powerful light of a glaring torch, 
while their juniors and inferiors were arranged in the back- 
ground, presenting a dark outline of swarthy and marked visages. 
In the very centre of the lodge, immediately under an opening 10 
that admitted the twinkling light of one or two stars, stood 
Uncas, calm, elevated, and collected. His high and haughty 
carriage was not lost on his captors, who often bent their looks 
on his person, with eyes which, while they lost none of their 
inflexibility of purpose, plainly betrayed their admiration of the 15 
stranger's daring. 

The case was different with the individual whom Duncan had 
observed to stand forth with his friend previously to the desperate 
trial of speed; and who, instead of joining in the chase, had 
remained, throughout its turbulent uproar, like a cringing statue, 2 
expressive of shame and disgrace. Though not a hand had been 
extended to greet him, nor yet an eye had condescended to watch 
his movements, he had also entered the lodge, as though impelled 
by a fate to whose decrees he submitted, seemingly, without a 
struggle. Heyward profited by the first opportunity to gaze in 2 5 
his face, secretly apprehensive he might find the features of 
another acquaintance ; but they proved to be those of a stranger, 
and, what was still more inexplicable, of one who bore all the 
distinctive marks of a Huron warrior. Instead of mingling with 
his tribe, however, he sat apart, a solitary being in a multitude, 3 
his form shrinking into a crouching and abject attitude, as if 
anxious to fill as little space as possible. When each individual 
had taken his proper station and silence reigned in the place, the 



104 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

gray-haired chief already introduced to the reader spoke aloud, 
in the language of the Lenni Lenape. 

"Delaware," he said, "though one of a nation of women, you 
have proved yourself a man. I would give you food; but he 
5 who eats with a Huron should become his friend. Rest in peace 
till the morning sun, when our last words shall be spoken." 

"Seven nights, and as many summer days, have I fasted on 
the trail of the Hurons," Uncas coldly replied; "the children of 
the Lenape know how to travel the path of the just without 
10 lingering to eat." 

"Two of my young men are in pursuit of your companion," 
resumed the other, without appearing to regard the boast of his 
captive; "when they get back, then will our wise men say to 
you, — 'live' or 'die/ " 
!5 "Has a Huron no ears?" scornfully exclaimed Uncas; "twice., 

since he has been your prisoner, has the Delaware heard a gun 
that he knows. Your young men will never come back!" 

A short and sullen pause succeeded this bold assertion. Dun- 
can, who understood the Mohican to allude to the fatal rifle of 
20 the scout, bent forward in earnest observation of the effect it 
might produce on the conquerors ; but the chief was content with 
simply retorting: — 

"If the Lenape are so skilful, why is one of their bravest 
warriors here?" 
25 "He followed in the steps of a flying coward, and fell into 

a snare. The cunning beaver may be caught." 

As Uncas thus replied, he pointed with his finger toward the 
solitary Huron, but without deigning to bestow any other notice 
on so unworthy an object. The words of the answer and the 
30 air of the speaker produced a strong sensation among his auditors. 
Every eye rolled sullenly toward the individual indicated by the 
simple gesture, and a low, threatening murmur passed through 
the crowd. The ominous sounds reached the outer door, and the 
women and children pressing into the throng, no gap had been 



THE KNICKERBOCKER WRITERS 105 

left, between shoulder and shoulder, that was not now filled 
with the dark lineaments of some eager and curious human 
countenance. 

In the meantime, the more aged chiefs, in the centre, com- 
muned with each other in short and broken sentences. Not a 5 
word was uttered that did not convey the meaning of the speaker 
in the simplest and most energetic form. Again, a long and 
deeply solemn pause took place. It was known, by all present, 
to be the grave precursor of a weighty and important judgment. 
They who composed the outer circle of faces were on tiptoe to 10 
gaze; and even the culprit for an instant forgot his shame in a 
deeper emotion, and exposed his abject features, in order to cast 
an anxious and troubled glance at the dark assemblage of chiefs. 
The silence was finally broken by the aged warrior so often 
named. He arose from the earth, and moving past the 15 
immovable form of Uncas, placed himself in a dignified attitude 
before the offender. At that moment the withered squaw 
already mentioned moved into the circle, in a slow, sidling sort 
of a dance, holding the torch and muttering the indistinct words 
of what might have been a species of incantation. Though her 2 
presence was altogether an intrusion, it was unheeded. 

Approaching Uncas, she held the blazing brand in such a 
manner as to cast its red glare on his person, and to expose the 
slightest emotion of his countenance. The Mohican maintained 
his firm and haughty attitude; and his eye, so far from deigning 
to meet her inquisitive look, dwelt steadily on the distance, as 
though it penetrated the obstacles which impeded the view and 
looked into futurity. Satisfied with her examination, she left 
him, with a slight expression of pleasure, and proceeded to 
practise the same trying experiment on her delinquent country- 
man. 

The young Huron was in his war paint, and very little of a 
finely moulded form was concealed by his attire. The light 
rendered every limb and joint discernible, and Duncan turned 



25 



30 



106 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

away in horror when he saw they were writhing in irrepressible 
agony. The woman was commencing a low and plaintive howl 
at the sad and shameful spectacle, when the chief put forth his 
hand and gently pushed her aside. 
5 "Reed-that-bends," he said, addressing the young culprit by 

name, and in his proper language, "though the Great Spirit has 
made you pleasant to the eyes, it would have been better that you 
had not been born. Your tongue is loud in the village, but in 
battle it is still. None of my young men strike the tomahawk 

10 deeper into the war-post — none of them so lightly on the Yen- 
geese. The enemy know the shape of your back, but they have 
never seen the color of your eyes. Three times have they called 
on you to come, and as often did you forget to answer. Your 
name will never be mentioned again in your tribe — it is already 

15 forgotten." 

As the chief slowly uttered these words, pausing impressively 
between each sentence, the culprit raised his face in deference 
to the other's rank and years. Shame, horror, and pride 
struggled in its lineaments. His eye, which was contracted with 

20 inward anguish, gleamed on the persons of those whose breath 
was his fame; and the latter emotion for an instant predomi- 
nated. He arose to his feet, and baring his bosom, looked steadily 
on the keen, glittering knife that was already upheld by his 
inexorable judge. As the weapon passed slowly into his heart 

25 he even smiled, as if in joy, at having found death less dreadful 
than he had anticipated, and fell heavily on his face at the feet 
of the rigid and unyielding form of Uncas. 

The squaw gave a loud and plaintive yell, dashed the torch to 
the earth, and buried everything in darkness. The whole shud- 

30 dering group of spectators glided from the lodge like troubled 
sprites ; and Duncan thought that he and the yet throbbing body 
of the victim of an Indian judgment had now become its only 
tenants. 



THE KNICKERBOCKER WRITERS 107 

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
Born in Massachusetts, 1794; died in New York City, 1878 

THANATOPSIS 

To him who in the love of Nature holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
A various language ; for his gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 

And eloquence of beauty, and she glides 5 

Into his darker musings, with a mild 
And healing sympathy, that steals away 
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts 
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 

Over thy spirit, and sad images 10 

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart ; — 
Go forth, under the open sky, and list 

To Nature's teachings, while from all around — l5 

Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 
Comes a still voice — Yet a few days, and thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground, 
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, 20 

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim 
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, 
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
Thine individual being, shalt thou go 25 

To mix forever with the elements, 
To be a brother to the insensible rock 
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 



108 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish 
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
With patriarchs of the infant world^with kings, 
5 The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, 

Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 
All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills 
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, — the vales 
Stretching in pensive quietness between; 

10 The venerable woods — rivers that move 

In majesty, and the complaining brooks 
That make the meadows green ; and, poured round all, 
Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 
Are but the solemn decorations all 

15 Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 
Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 
The globe are but a handful to the tribes 

2 That slumber in its bosom. — Take the wings 

Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, 
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, 
Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there : 

2 5 And millions in those solitudes, since first 

The flight of years began, have laid them down 
In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. 
So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw 
In silence from the living, and no friend 

3 o Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe 

Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
Plod on, and each one as before will chase 
His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave 






THE KNICKERBOCKER WRITERS 109 

Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 

And make their bed with thee. As the long train 

Of ages glides away, the sons of men, 

The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes 

In the full strength of years, matron and maid, 5 

The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man — 

Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, 

By those who in their turn shall follow them. 

So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan, which moves 10 

To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, 
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, 15 

Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 

TO A WATERFOWL 

Whither, midst falling dew, 
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, 
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 20 

Thy solitary way ? 

Vainly the fowler's eye 
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, 

Thy figure floats along. 25 

Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 

On the chafed ocean-side? 



110 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

There is a Power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast — 
The desert and illimitable air — 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 

All day thy wings have fanned, 
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, 
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 

Though the dark night is near. 

And soon that toil shall end ; 
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, 
And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend, 

Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. 

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet, on my heart 
15 Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 

And shall not soon depart. 

He who, from zone to zone, 
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 
In the long way that I must tread alone 
20 Will lead my steps aright. 



TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN 

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, 
And colored with the heaven's own blue 
That openest when the quiet light 
Succeeds the keen and frosty night, 

Thou comest not when violets lean 

O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, 

Or columbines, in purple dressed, 

Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. 



THE KNICKERBOCKER WRITERS 111 

Thou waitest late and com'st alone, 
When woods are bare and birds are flown, 
And frost and shortening days portend 
The aged year is near his end. 

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 5 

Look through its fringes to the sky, 
Blue — blue — as if that sky let fall 
A flower from its cerulean wall. 

I would that thus, when I shall see 

The hour of death draw near to me, *0 

Hope, blossoming within my heart, 

May look to heaven as I depart. 

ROBERT OF LINCOLN 



r 



20 



Merrily swinging on brier and weed, 
Near to the nest of his little dame, 
Over the mountain-side or mead, 15 

Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
Snug and safe is that nest of ours, 
Hidden among the summer flowers. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest, 

Wearing a bright black wedding-coat ; 
White are his shoulders and white his crest. 

Hear him call in his merry note : 2 6 

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 



112 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Look, what a nice new coat is mine, 
Sure there was never a bird so fine. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, 
6 Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, 

Passing at home a patient life, 

Broods in the grass while her husband sings 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
® Brood, kind creature ; you need not fear 

Thieves and robbers while I am here. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Modest and shy as a nun is she ; 
One weak chirp is her only note. 
1 5 Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, 

Pouring boasts from his little throat : 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
Never was I afraid of man ; 
Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can ! 
Chee, chee, chee. 



20 



Six white eggs on a bed of hay, 

Flecked with purple, a pretty sight ! 
There as the mother sits all day, 
25 Robert is singing with all his might : 

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
Nice good wife, that never goes out, 
Keeping house while I frolic about. 
Chee, chee, chee. 



THE KNICKERBOCKER WRITERS 113 

Soon as the little ones chip the shell, 

Six wide mouths are open for food ; 
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, 

Gathering seeds for the hungry brood. 

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 5 

Spink, spank, spink; 
This new life is likely to be 
Hard for a gay young fellow like me. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln at length is made 1 

Sober with work, and silent with care ; 
Off is his holiday garment laid. 
Half forgotten that merry air : 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 

Spink, spank, spink; 15 

Nobody knows but my mate and I 
Where our nest and our nestlings lie. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Summer wanes ; the children are grown ; 

Fun and frolic no more he knows ; 2 

Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone; 
Off he flies, and we sing as he goes : 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
When you can pipe that merry old strain, 2 5 

Robert of Lincoln; come back again. 
Chee, chee, chee. 



114 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 



DANIEL WEBSTER 
Born in New Hampshire, 1782; died in Massachusetts, 1852 

THE FIRST BUNKER HILL ORATION 

This uncounted multitude before me and around me proves 
the feeling which the occasion has excited. These thousands 
of human faces, glowing with sympathy and joy, and from the 
impulses of a common gratitude turned reverently to heaven in 
5 this spacious temple of the firmament, proclaim that the day, the 
place, and the purpose of our assembling have made a deep 
impression on our hearts. 

If, indeed, there be anything in local association fit to affect 
the mind of man, we need not strive to repress the emotions 

10 which agitate us here. We are among the sepulchers of our 
fathers. We are on ground distinguished by their valor, their 
constancy, and the shedding of their blood. We are here, not 
to fix an uncertain date in our annals, nor to draw into notice 
an obscure and unknown spot. If our humble purpose had 

15 never been conceived, if we ourselves had never been born, the 
17th of June, 1775, would have been a day on which all sub- 
sequent history would have poured its light, and the eminence 
where we stand a point of attraction to the eyes of successive 
generations. But we are Americans. We live in what may 

20 be called the early age of this great continent ; and we know 
that our posterity, through all time, are here to enjoy and suffer 
the allotments of humanity. We see before us a probable train 
of great events; we know that our own fortunes have been 
happily cast; and it is natural, therefore, that we should be 
moved by the contemplation of occurrences which have guided 
our destiny before many of us were born, and settled the condi- 



25 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 115 

tion in which we should pass that portion of our existence which 
God allows to men on earth. 
******* 

The great event in the history of the continent, which we 
are now met here to commemorate, that prodigy of modern 5 
times, at once the wonder and the blessing of the world, is the 
American Revolution. In a day of extraordinary prosperity 
and happiness, of high national honor, distinction, and power, 
we are brought together, in this place, by our love of country, 
by our admiration of exalted character, by our gratitude for 10 
signal services and patriotic devotion. 

The Society whose organ I am was formed for the purpose 

of rearing some honorable and durable monument to the 

memory of the early friends of American Independence. They 

have thought that for this object no time could be more pro- 15 

pitious than the present prosperous and peaceful period ; that no 

place could claim preference over this memorable spot; and 

that no day could be more auspicious to the undertaking than 

the anniversary of the battle which was here fought. The 

foundation of that monument we have now laid. With solem- 20 

nities suited to the occasion, with prayers to Almighty God for His 

blessing, and in the midst of this cloud of witnesses, we have 

begun the work. We trust it will he prosecuted, and that, 

springing from a broad foundation, rising high in massive solidity 

and unadorned grandeur, it may remain as long as Heaven 25 

permits the works of man to last, a fit emblem, both of the events 

in memory of which it is raised and of the gratitude of those 

who have reared it. 
******* 

We live in a most extraordinary age. Events so various 30 
and so important that they might crowd and distinguish centuries 
are, in our times, compressed within the compass of a single life. 
When has it happened that history has had so much to record, 
in the same term of years, as since the 17th of June, 1775? Our 



116 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

own revolution, which, under other circumstances, might itself 
have been expected to occasion a war of half a century, has been 
achieved; twenty-four sovereign and independent States erected; 
and a general government established over them, so safe, so 
5 wise, so free, so practical, that we might well wonder its establish- 
ment should have been accomplished so soon, were it not far the 
greater wonder that it should have been established at all. Two 
or three millions of people have been augmented to twelve, the 
great forests of the West prostrated beneath the arm of success- 

10 f u l industry, and the dwellers on the banks of the Ohio and the 
Mississippi become the fellow-citizens and neighbors of those who 
cultivate the hills of New England. We have a commerce that 
leaves no sea unexplored; navies which take no law from 
superior force; revenues adequate to all the exigencies of gov- 

15 ernment, almost without taxation; and peace with all nations, 
founded on equal rights and mutual respect. 

Europe, within the same period, has been agitated by a 
mighty revolution, which, while it has been felt in the individual 
condition and happiness of almost every man, has shaken to the 

20 centre her political fabric, and dashed against one another thrones 
which had stood tranquil for ages. On this, our continent, our 
own example has been followed, and colonies have sprung up to 
be nations. Unaccustomed sounds of liberty and free govern- 
ment have reached us from beyond the track of the sun; and at 

25 this moment the dominion of European power in this continent, 
from the place where we stand to the south pole, is annihilated 
forever. 

In the meantime, both in Europe and America, such has been 
the general progress of knowledge, such the improvement in 

30 legislation, in commerce, in the arts, in letters, and, above all, 
in liberal ideas and the general spirit of the age, that the whole 
world seems changed. 

Yet, notwithstanding that this is but a faint abstract of the 
things which have happened since the day of the battle of Bunker 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 117 

Hill, we are but fifty years removed from it ; and we now stand 
here to enjoy all the blessings -of our own condition, and to look 
abroad on die brightened prospects of the world, while we still 
have among us some of those who were active agents in the 
scenes of [.775, and who are now here, from every quarter of 5 
New England, to visit once more, and under circumstances so 
affecting, I had almost said so overwhelming, this renowned 
theater of their courage and patriotism. 

Venerable men ! you have come down to us from a former 
generation. Heaven has bounteously lengthened out your lives, 10 
that you might behold this joyous day. You are now where you 
stood fifty years ago, this very hour, with your brothers and your 
neighbors, shoulder to shoulder, in the strife for your country. 
Behold, how altered! The same heavens are indeed over your 
heads ; the same ocean rolls at your feet ; but all else how changed ! 1 5 
You hear now no roar of hostile cannon, you see no mixed 
volumes of smoke and flame rising from burning Charlestown. 
The ground strewed with the dead and the dying; the impetuous 
charge; the steady and successful repulse; the loud call to 
repeated assault; the summoning of all that is manly to repeated 2 
resistance; a thousand bosoms freely and fearlessly bared in an 
instant to whatever of terror there may be in war and death — 
all these you have witnessed, but you witness them no more. All 
is peace. The heights of yonder metropolis, its towers and roofs, 
which you then saw filled with wives and children and country- 2 5 
men in distress and terror and looking with unutterable emotions 
for the issue of the combat, have presented you to-day with the 
sight of its whole happy population, come out to welcome and 
greet you with a universal jubilee. Yonder proud ships, by a 
felicity of position appropriately lying at the foot of this mount, 30 
and seeming fondly to cling around it, are not means of annoy- 
ance to you, but your country's own means of distinction and 
defence. All is peace; and God has granted you this sight of 
your country's happiness ere you slumber in the grave. He has 



118 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

allowed you to behold and to partake the reward of your patriotic 
toils ; and he has allowed us, your sons and countrymen, to meet 
you here, and in the name of the present generation, in the name 
of your country, in the name of liberty, to thank you ! 
5 But, alas ! you are not all here ! Time and the sword have 

thinned your ranks. Prescott, Putnam, Stark, Brooks, Read, 
Pomeroy, Bridge ! our eyes seek for you in vain amid this broken 
band. You are gathered to your fathers, and live only to your 
country in her grateful remembrance and your own bright 

10 example. But let us not too much grieve that you have met 
the common fate of men. You lived at least long enough to 
know that your work had been nobly and successfully accom- 
plished. You lived to see your country's independence estab- 
lished, and to sheathe your swords from war. On the light of 

15 Liberty you saw arise the light of Peace, like 

"another morn, 
"another morn, 

and the sky on which you closed your eyes was cloudless. 

But, ah ! Him ! the first great martyr in this great cause ! 

20 Him ! the premature victim of his own self-devoting heart ! Him ! 
the head of our civil councils and the destined leader of our 
military bands, whom nothing brought hither but the unquench- 
able fire of his own spirit! Him! cut off by Providence in the 
hour of overwhelming anxiety and thick gloom ; falling ere he 

2 5 saw the star of his country rise ; pouring out his generous blood 
like water, before he knew whether it would fertilize a land of 
freedom or of bondage ! — how shall I struggle with the emotions 
that stifle the utterance of thy name! Our poor work may 
perish; but thine shall endure! This monument may moulder 

30 away; the solid ground it rests upon may sink down to a level 
with the sea; but thy memory shall not fail! Wheresoever 
among men a heart shall be found that beats to the transports 
of patriotism and liberty, its aspirations shall be to claim kindred 
with thy spirit. 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 119 

But the scene amidst which we stand does not permit us to 
confine our thoughts or our sympathies to those fearless spirits 
who hazarded or lost their lives on this consecrated spot. We 
have the happiness to rejoice here in the presence of a most 
worthy representation of the survivors of the whole Revolu- 6 
tionary army. 

Veterans ! you are the remnant of many a well-fought field. 
You bring with you marks of honor from Trenton and Mon- 
mouth, from Yorktown, Camden, Bennington, and Saratoga. 
Veterans of half a century! when in your youthful days you 10 
put everything at hazard in your country's cause, good as that 
cause was, and sanguine as youth is, still your fondest hopes did 
not stretch onward to an hour like this ! At a period to which 
you could not reasonably have expected to arrive, at a moment 
of national prosperity such as you could never have foreseen, 15 
you are now met here to enjoy the fellowship of old soldiers and 
to receive the overflowings of a universal gratitude. 

But your agitated countenances and your heaving breasts 
inform me that even this is not an unmixed joy. I perceive that 
a tumult of contending feelings rushes upon you. The images 20 
of the dead, as well as the persons of the living, present them- 
selves before you. The scene overwhelms you, and I turn from 
it. May the Father of all mercies smile upon your declining 
years, and bless them ! And when you shall here have exchanged 
your embraces, when you shall once more have pressed the hands 2 5 
which have been so often extended to give succor in adversity, 
or grasped in the exultation of victory, then look abroad upon 
this lovely land which your young valor defended and mark the 
happiness with which it is filled ; yea, look abroad upon the whole 
earth and see what a name you have contributed to give to your 30 
country and what a praise you have added to freedom, and then 
rejoice in the sympathy and gratitude which beam upon your 
last days from the improved condition of mankind ! 
******* 



120 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

The 17th of June saw the four New England Colonies stand- 
ing here, side by side, to triumph or to fall together; and there 
was with them from that moment to the end of the war what 
I hope will remain with them forever, — one cause, one country, 
5 one heart. 

The battle of Bunker Hill was attended with the most impor- 
tant effects beyond its immediate results as a military engagement. 
It created at once a state of open, public war. There could now 
be no longer a question of proceeding against individuals, as 

10 guilty of treason or rebellion. That fearful crisis was past. 
The appeal lay to the sword, and the only question was whether 
the spirit and the resources of the people would hold out till the 
object should be accomplished. Nor were its general conse- 
quences confined to our own country. The previous proceed- 

1 5 ings of the Colonies, their appeals, resolutions, and addresses had 
made their cause known to Europe. Without boasting, we may 
say, that in no age or country has the public cause been maintained 
with more force of argument, more power of illustration, or more 
of that persuasion which excited feeling and elevated principle 

2 can alone bestow, than the Revolutionary state papers exhibit. 
These papers will forever deserve to be studied, not only for the 
spirit which they breathe, but for the ability with which they 
were written. 

To this able vindication of their cause, the Colonies had now 

2 5 added a practical and severe proof of their own true devotion to 
it, and given evidence also of the power which they could bring 
to its support. All now saw that if America fell, she would not 
fall without a struggle. Men felt sympathy and regard, as 
well as surprise, when they beheld these infant states, remote, 
unknown, unaided, encounter the power of England, and, in the 
first considerable battle, leave more of their enemies dead on the 
field, in proportion to the number of combatants, than had been 
recently known to fall in the wars of Europe. 

Information of these events, circulating throughout the world. 



30 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 121 

at length reached the ears of one who now hears me. He has 
not forgotten the emotion which the fame of Bunker Hill and 
the name of Warren excited in his youthful breast. 

Sir, we are assembled to commemorate the establishment of 
great public principles of liberty, and to do honor to the distin- 5 
guished dead. The occasion is too severe for eulogy of the living. 
But, Sir, your interesting relation to this country, the peculiar 
circumstances which surround you and surround us, call on me 
to express the happiness which we derive from your presence 
and aid in this solemn commemoration. 10 

Fortunate, fortunate man ! with what measure of devotion 
will you not thank God for the circumstances of your extraordi- 
nary life! You are connected with both hemispheres and with 
two generations. Heaven saw fit to ordain that the electric 
spark of liberty should be conducted, through you, from the New 15 
World to the Old; and we, who are now here to perform this 
duty of patriotism, have all of us long ago received it in charge 
from our fathers to cherish your name and your virtues. You 
will account it an instance of your good fortune, sir, that you 
crossed the seas to visit us at a time which enables you to be 20 
present at this solemnity. You now behold the field, the renown 
of which reached you in the heart of France and caused a thrill 
in your ardent bosom. You see the lines of the little redoubt 
thrown up by the incredible diligence of Prescott; defended, to 
the last extremity, by his lion-hearted valor; and within which 25 
the corner-stone of our monument has now taken its posi- 
tion. You see where Warren fell, and where Parker, Gardner, 
McCleary, Moore, and other early patriots fell with him. Those 
who survived that day, and whose lives have been prolonged to 
the present hour, are now around you. Some of them you have 30 
known in the trying scenes of the war. Behold ! they now stretch 
forth their feeble arms to embrace you. Behold ! they raise their 
trembling voices to invoke the blessing of God on you and yours 
forever. 



122 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Sir, you have assisted us in laying the foundation of this 
structure. You have heard us rehearse, with our feeble com- 
mendation, the names of departed patriots. Monuments and 
eulogy belong to the dead. We give them this day to Warren 
5 and his associates. On other occasions they have been given to 
your more immediate companions in arms, to Washington, to 
Greene, to Gates, to Sullivan, and to Lincoln. W T e have become 
reluctant to grant these, our highest and last honors, further. 
We would gladly hold them yet back from the little remnant of 

10 that immortal band. "Serns in coclum redeas." Illustrious as 
are your merits, yet far, O, very far distant be the day, when 
any inscription shall bear your name, or any tongue pronounce 
its eulogy ! 

The leading reflection to which this occasion seems to invite 

15 us respects the great changes which have happened in the fifty 
years since the battle of Bunker Hill was fought. And it 
peculiarly marks the character of the present age that, in looking 
at these changes, and in estimating their effect on our condition, 
we are obliged to consider, not what has been done in our country 

2 only, but in others also. In these interesting times, while nations 
are making separate and individual advances in improvement, 
they make, too, a common progress; like vessels on a common 
tide, propelled by the gales at different rates, according to their 
several structure and management, but all moved forward by one 

25 mighty current, strong enough to bear onward whatever does 
not sink beneath it. 

A chief distinction of the present day is a community of 
opinions and knowledge amongst men in different nations, exist- 
ing in a degree heretofore unknown. Knowledge has, in our 

30 time, triumphed, and is triumphing, over distance, over difference 
of languages, over diversity of habits, over prejudice, and over 
bigotry. The civilized and Christian world is fast learning the 
great lesson that difference of nation does not imply necessary 
hostility, and that all contact need not be war. The whole world 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 123 

is becoming a common field for intellect to act in. Energy of 
mind, genius, power, wheresoever it exists, may speak out in any 
tongue, and the world will hear it. A. great chord of sentiment 
and feeling runs through two continents, and vibrates over both. 
Every breeze wafts intelligence from country to country, every 5 
wave rolls it; all give it forth, and all in turn receive it. There 
is a vast commerce of ideas ; there are marts and exchanges for 
intellectual discoveries, and a wonderful fellowship of those 
individual intelligences which make up the mind and opinion of 
the age. Mind is the great lever of all things; human thought 10 
is the process by which human ends are ultimately answered; 
and the diffusion of knowledge, so astonishing in the last half- 
century, has rendered innumerable minds, variously gifted by 
nature, competent to be competitors or fellow-workers on the 
theater of intellectual operation. l5 

From these causes important improvements have taken place 
in the personal condition of individuals. Generally speaking, 
mankind are not only better fed and better clothed, but they 
are able also to enjoy more leisure ; they possess more refinement 
and more self-respect. A superior tone of education, manners, 2 
and habits prevails. This remark, most true in its application 
to our own country, is also partly true when applied elsewhere. 
It is proved by the vastly augmented consumption of those 
articles of manufacture and of commerce which contribute to 
the comforts and the decencies of life ; an augmentation which 2 5 
has far outrun the progress of population. And while the 
unexampled and almost incredible use of machinery would seem 
to supply the place of labor, labor still finds its occupation and 
its reward ; so wisely has Providence adjusted men's wants and 
desires to their condition and their capacity. 

Any adequate survey, however, of the progress made during 
the last half-century in the polite and the mechanic arts, in 
machinery and manufactures, in commerce and agriculture, in 
letters and in science, would require volumes. I must abstain 



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124 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

wholly from these subjects, and turn for a moment to the con- 
templation of what has been done on the great question of politics 
and government. This is the master topic of the age ; and during 
the whole fifty years it has intensely occupied the thoughts of 
men. The nature of civil government, its ends and uses, have 
been canvassed and investigated; ancient opinions attacked and 
defended; new ideas recommended and resisted, by whatever 
power the mind of man could bring to the controversy. From 
the closet and the public halls the debate has been transferred to 
the field ; and the world has been shaken by wars of unexampled 
magnitude and the greatest variety of fortune. A day of peace 
has at length succeeded; and now that the strife has subsided 
and the smoke cleared away, we may begin to see what has 
actually been done, permanently changing the state and condi- 
tion of human society. And, without dwelling on particular 
circumstances, it is most apparent that, from the before-mentioned 
causes of augmented knowledge and improved individual condi- 
tion, a real, substantial, and important change has taken place, 
and is taking place, highly favorable, on the whole, to human 

20 liberty and human happiness. 

The great wheel of political revolution began to move in 
America. Here its rotation was guarded, regular, and safe. 
Transferred to the other continent, from unfortunate but natural 
causes, it received an irregular and violent impulse; it whirled 

2 5 along with a fearful celerity; till at length, like the chariot-wheels 
in the races of antiquity, it took fire from the rapidity of its own 
motion and blazed onward, spreading conflagration and terror 
around. 

We learn from the. result of this experiment, how fortunate 

30 W as our own condition, and how admirably the character of our 
people was calculated for setting the great example of popular 
governments. The possession of power did not turn the heads 
of the American people, for they had long been in the habit of 
exercising a great degree of self-control. Although the para- 



10 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 125 

mount authority of the parent state existed over them, yet a 
large field of legislation had always been open to our Colonial 
assemblies. They were accustomed to representative bodies and 
the forms of free government; they understood the doctrine of 
the division of power among different branches, and the necessity 
of checks on each. The character of our countrymen, moreover, 
was sober, moral, and religious ; and there was little in the change 
to shock their feelings of justice and humanity, or even to disturb 
an honest prejudice. We had no domestic throne to overturn, 
no privileged orders to cast down, no violent changes of property 
to encounter. In the American Revolution, no man sought or 
wished for more than to defend and enjoy his own. None 
hoped for plunder or for spoil. Rapacity was unknown to it ; the 
axe was not among the instruments of its accomplishment; and 
we all know that it could not have lived a single day under any 15 
well-founded imputation of possessing a tendency adverse to the 
Christian religion. 

It need not surprise us that, under circumstances less auspici- 
ous, political revolutions elsewhere, even when well intended, 
have terminated differently. It is, indeed, a great achievement; 2 
it is the masterwork of the world to establish governments 
entirely popular on lasting foundations; nor is it easy, indeed, 
to introduce the popular principle at all into governments to 
which it has been altogether a stranger. It cannot be doubted, 
however, that Europe has come out of the contest, in which 2 5 
she has been so long engaged, with greatly superior knowl- 
edge, and. in many respects, in a highly improved condi- 
tion. Whatever benefit has been acquired is likely to be retained, 
for it consists mainly in the acquisition of more enlightened ideas. 
And although kingdoms and provinces may be wrested from the 
hands that hold them in the same manner they were obtained; 
although ordinary and vulgar power may, in human affairs, be 
lost as it has been won ; yet it is the glorious prerogative of the 
empire of knowledge that what it gains it never loses. On the 



30 



10 



126 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

contrary, it increases by the multiple of its own power; all its 
ends become means; all its attainments, helps to new conquests. 
Its whole abundant harvest is but so much seed wheat, and 
nothing has limited, and nothing can limit, the amount of ultimate 
product. 

Under the influence of this rapidly increasing knowledge, the 
people have begun, in all forms of government, to think and to 
reason on affairs of state. Regarding government as an institu- 
tion for the public good, they demand a knowledge of its opera- 
tions and a participation in its exercise. A call for the represen- 
tative system, wherever it is not enjoyed, and where there is 
already intelligence enough to estimate its value, is perseveringly 
made. Where men may speak out, they demand it; where the 
bayonet is at their throats, they pray for it. 

When Louis the Fourteenth said, "I am the State," he 
expressed the essence of the doctrine of unlimited power. By 
the rules of that system, the people are disconnected from the 
state; they are its subjects, it is their lord. These ideas, founded 
in the love of power and long supported by the excess and the 
abuse of it, are yielding, in our age, to other opinions ; and the 
civilized world seems at last to be proceeding to the conviction of 
that fundamental and manifest truth that the powers of govern- 
ment are but a trust, and that they cannot be lawfully exercised 
but for the good of the community. As knowledge is more and 

25 more extended, this conviction becomes more and more general. 
Knowledge, in truth, is the great sun in the firmament. Life 
and power are scattered with all its beams. The prayer of the 
Grecian champion, when enveloped in unnatural clouds and 
darkness, is the appropriate political supplication for the people 

30 of every country not yet blessed with free institutions: — 

"Dispel this cloud, the light of heaven restore, 
Give me to see, — and Ajax asks no more." 

We may hope that the growing influence of enlightened senti- 



20 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 127 

ment will promote the permanent peace of the world. Wars to 
maintain family alliances, to uphold or to cast down dynasties, 
and to regulate successions to thrones, which have occupied so 
much room in the history of modern times, if not less likely to 
happen at all, will be less likely to become general and involve 5 
many nations, as the great principle shall be more and more 
established that the interest of the world is peace, and its first 
great statute, that every nation possesses the power of establish- 
ing a government for itself. But public opinion has attained also 
an influence over governments which do not admit the popular 10 
principle into their organization. A necessary respect for the 
judgment of the world operates, in some measure, as a control 
over the most unlimited forms of authority. It is owing, perhaps, 
to this truth that the interesting struggle of the Greeks has been 
suffered to go on so long, without a direct interference, either to 15 
wrest that country from its present masters, or to execute the 
system of pacification by force, and, with united strength, lay 
the neck of Christian and civilized Greek at the foot of the 
barbarian Turk. Let us thank God that we live in an age when 
something has influence besides the bayonet, and when the 2 
sternest authority does not venture to encounter the scorching 
power of public reproach. Any attempt of the kind I have 
mentioned should be met by one universal burst of indignation; 
the air of the civilized world ought to be made too warm to be 

comfortably breathed by any one who would hazard it. 2 5 

******* 

And now, let us indulge an honest exultation in the convic- 
tion of the benefit which the example of our country has pro- 
duced, and is likely to produce, on human freedom and human 
happiness. Let us endeavor to comprehend in all its magnitude, 30 
and to feel in all its importance, the part assigned to us in the 
great drama of human affairs. We are placed at the head of 
the system of representative and popular governments. Thus 
far our example shows that such governments are compatible, 



10 



128 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

not only with respectability and power, but with repose, with 
peace, with security of personal rights, with good laws, and a 
just administration. 

We are not propagandists. Wherever other systems are pre- 
ferred, either as being thought better in themselves, or as better 
suited to existing conditions, we leave the preference to be 
enjoyed. Our history hitherto proves, however, that the popular 
form is practicable, and that with wisdom and knowledge men 
may govern themselves; and the duty incumbent on us is to 
preserve the consistency of this cheering example, and take care 
that nothing may weaken its authority with the world. If, in 
our case, the representative system ultimately fail, popular gov- 
ernments must be pronounced impossible. No combination of 
circumstances more favorable to the experiment can ever be 

16 expected to occur. The last hopes of mankind, therefore, rest 
with us; and if it should be proclaimed that our example had 
become an argument against the experiment, the knell of popular 
liberty would be sounded throughout the earth. 

These are excitements to duty; but they are not suggestions 

20 of doubt. Our history and our condition, all that is gone before 
us, and all that surrounds us, authorize the belief that popular 
governments, though subject to occasional variations, in form 
perhaps not always for the better, may yet, in their general 
character, be as durable and permanent as other systems. We 

2 5 know, indeed, that in our country any other is impossible. The 
principle of free government adheres to the American soil. It 
is bedded in it, immovable as its mountains. 

And let the sacred obligations which have devolved on this 
generation, and on us, sink deep into our hearts. Those who 

30 established our liberty and our government are daily dropping 
from among us. The great trust now descends to new hands. 
Let us apply ourselves to that which is presented to us, as our 
appropriate object. We can win no laurels in a war for inde- 
pendence. Earlier and worthier hands have gathered them all. 



10 



15 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 129 

Nor are there places for us by the side of Solon, and Alfred, 
and other founders of states. Our fathers have tilled them. 
But there remains to us a great duty of defence and preservation ; 
and there is opened to us, also, a noble pursuit, to which the 
spirit of the times strongly invites us. Our proper business is 
improvement. Let our age be the age of improvement. In a 
day of peace, let us advance the arts of peace and the works of 
peace. Let us develop the resources of our land, call forth its 
powers, build up its institutions, promote all its great interests, 
and see whether we also, in our day and generation, may not 
perform something worthy to be remembered. Let us cultivate 
a true spirit of union and harmony. In pursuing the great 
objects which our condition points out to us, let us act under 
a settled conviction, and an habitual feeling, that these twenty- 
four States are one country. Let our conceptions be enlarged 
to the circle of our duties. Let us extend our ideas over the 
whole of the vast field in which we are called to act. Let our 
object be, our country, our whole country, and nothing 
but our country. And, by the blessing of God, may that 
country itself become a vast and splendid monument, not of 
oppression and terror, but of Wisdom, of Peace, and of Liberty, 
upon which the world may gaze with admiration forever ! 



FRANCIS PARKMAN 
Born in Boston, 1823 ; died there, 1893 

AN INDIAN BANQUET 
From The Oregon Trail 
Having been domesticated for several weeks among one of 
the wildest of the hordes that roam over the remote prairies, I 
had unusual opportunities of observing them, and flatter myself 25 
that a sketch of the scenes that passed daily before my eyes may 
not be devoid of interest. They were thorough savages. Neither 



20 



130 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

their manners nor their ideas were in the slightest degree modi- 
fied by contact with civilization. They knew nothing of the 
power and real character of the white men, and their children 
would scream in terror when they saw me. Their religion, super- 
6 stitions, and prejudices were the same handed down to them 
from immemorial time. They fought with the weapons that their 
fathers fought with, and wore the same garments of skins. They 
were living representatives of the "stone age"; for though their 
lances and arrows were tipped with iron procured from traders, 

10 they still used the rude stone mallet of the primeval world. 

Great changes are at hand in that region. With the stream 
of emigration to Oregon and California, the buffalo will dwindle 
away, and the large wandering communities who depend on them 
for support must be broken and scattered. The Indians will 

15 soon be abased by whiskey and overawed by military posts; so 
that within a few years the traveler may pass in tolerable security 
through their country. Its danger and its charm will have 
disappeared together. 

As soon as Raymond and I discovered the village from the 

2 gap in the hills, we were seen in our turn ; keen eyes were con- 
stantly on the watch. As we rode down upon the plain, the side 
of the village nearest us was darkened with a crowd of naked 
figures. Several men came forward to meet us. I could distin- 
guish among them the green blanket of the Frenchman Reynal. 

25 When we came up, the ceremony of shaking hands had to be 
gone through in due form, and then all were eager to know what 
had become of the rest of my party. I satisfied them on this 
point, and we all moved together toward the village. 

"You've missed it," said Reynal ; "if you'd been here day 

30 before yesterday, you'd have found the whole prairie over yonder 
black with buffalo as far as you could see. There were no 
cows, though ; nothing but bulls. We made a 'surround' every 
day till yesterday. See the village there; don't that look like 
good living?" 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 131 

In fact, I could see, even at that distance, long cords stretched 
from lodge to lodge, over which the meat, cut by the squaws into 
thin sheets, was hanging to dry in the sun. I noticed, too, that 
the village was somewhat smaller than when I had last seen it, 
and I asked Reynal the cause. He said that old Le Borgne had 5 
felt too weak to pass over the mountains and so had remained 
behind with all his relations, including Mahto-Tatonka and his 
brothers. The Whirlwind, too, had been unwilling to come so 
far, because, as Reynal said, he was afraid. Only half a dozen 
lodges had adhered to him, the main body of the village setting 10 
their chief's authority at naught and taking the course most 
agreeable to their inclinations. 

"What chiefs are there in the village now?" asked I. 

"Well," said Reynal, "there's old Red-Water, and the Eagle- 
Feather, and the Big Crow, and the Mad Wolf, and the Panther, 15 
and the White Shield, and — what's his name? — the half-breed 
Shienne." 

By this time we were close to the village, and I observed that 
while the greater part of the lodges were very large and neat in 
their appearance, there was at one side a cluster of squalid, 20 
miserable huts. I looked toward them and made some remark 
about their wretched appearance. But I was touching upon 
delicate ground. 

"My squaw's relations live in those lodges," said Reynal, very 
warmly ; "and there isn't a better set in the whole village." 2 5 

"Are there any chiefs among them ?" 

"Chiefs?" said Reynal; "yes, plenty!" 

"What are their names ?" 

"Their names? Why, there's the Arrow-Head. If he isn't 
a chief, he ought to be one. And there's the Hail-Storm. He's 3 
nothing but a boy, to be sure; but he's bound to be a chief one 
of these days." 

Just then we passed between two of the lodges, and entered 



132 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

the great area of the village. Superb, naked figures stood 
silently gazing on us. 

"Where's the Bad Wound's lodge?" said I to Reynal. 
"There, you've missed it again! The Bad Wound is away 
5 with the Whirlwind. If you could have found him here and 
gone to live in his lodge, he would have treated you better than 
any man in the village. But there's the Big Crow's lodge yonder, 
next to old Red- Water's. He's a good Indian for the whites, 
and I advise you to go and live with him." 

1° "Are there many squaws and children in his lodge?" said I. 

"No; only one squaw and two or three children. He keeps 
the rest in a separate lodge by themselves." 

So, still followed by a crowd of Indians, Raymond and I rode 
up to the entrance of the Big Crow's lodge. A squaw came out 

15 immediately and took our horses. I put aside the leather flap 
that covered the low opening, and, stooping, entered the Big 
Crow's dwelling. There I could see the chief in the dim light, 
seated at one side on a pile of buffalo-robes. He greeted me 
with a guttural, "How, cola!" I requested Reynal to tell him 

2 that Raymond and I were come to live with him. The Big 
Crow gave another low exclamation. The announcement may 
seem intrusive, but, in fact, every Indian in the village would 
have deemed himself honored that white men should give such 
preference to his hospitality. 

2 5 The squaw spread a buffalo-robe for us in the guest's place 

at the head of the lodge. Our saddles were brought in, and 
scarcely were we seated upon them before the place was thronged 
with Indians, crowding in to see us. The Big Crow produced 
his pipe and filled it with the mixture of tobacco and shongsasha, 

30 or red willow bark. Round and round it passed, and a lively 
conversation went forward. Meanwhile, a squaw placed before 
the two guests a wooden bowl of boiled buffalo-meat ; but unhap- 
pily this was not the only banquet destined to be inflicted on us. 
One after another, boys and young squaws thrust their heads in, 



10 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 133 

at the opening, to invite us to various feasts in different parts of 
the village. For half an hour or more we were actively engaged 
in passing from lodge to lodge, tasting in each of the bowl of 
meat set before us and inhaling a whiff or two from our enter- 
tainer's pipe. A thunder-storm that had been threatening for 
some time now began in good earnest. We crossed over to 
Reynal's lodge, though it hardly deserved the name, for it con- 
sisted only of a few old buffalo-robes, supported on poles, and 
was quite open on one side. Here we sat down, and the Indians 
gathered round us. 

"What is it," said I, "that makes the thunder?" 

"It's my belief," said Reynal, "that it's a big stone rolling 
over the sky." 

"Very likely," I replied; "but I want to know what the 
Indians think about it." 15 

So he interpreted my question, which produced some debate. 
There was a difference of opinion. At last old Mene-Seela, or 
Red- Water, who sat by himself at one side, looked up with his 
withered face and said he had always known what the thunder 
was. It was a great black bird; and once he had seen it, in a 2 
dream, swooping down from the Black Hills, with its loud roar- 
ing wings; and when it flapped them over a lake, they struck 
lightning from the water. 

"The thunder is bad," said another old man, who sat muffled 
in his buffalo-robe; "he killed my brother last summer." 2 5 

Reynal, at my request, asked for an explanation; but the old 
man remained doggedly silent and would not look up. Some 
time after I learned how the accident occurred. The man who 
was killed belonged to an association which, among other mystic 
functions, claimed the exclusive power and privilege of fighting 30 
the thunder. Whenever a storm which they wished to avert 
was threatening, the thunder-fighters would take their bows and 
arrows, their guns, their magic drum, and a sort of whistle, made 
out of the wing-bone of the war-eagle, and, thus equipped, run 



134 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

out and fire at the rising cloud, whooping, yelling, whistling, and 
beating their drum, to frighten it down again. One afternoon 
a heavy black cloud was coming up, and they repaired to the top 
of a hill, where they brought all their magic artillery into play 
5 against it. But the undaunted thunder, refusing to be terrified, 
darted out a bright flash, which struck one of the party dead as 
he was in the very act of shaking his long, iron-pointed lance 
against it. The rest scattered and ran yelling in an ecstasy of 
superstitious terror back to their lodges. 

1 ° The lodge of my host, Kongra-Tonga, or the Big Crow, pre- 

sented a picturesque spectacle that evening. A score or more of 
Indians were seated around it in a circle, their dark naked forms 
just visible by the dull light of the smouldering fire in the middle. 
The pipe glowed brightly in the gloom as it passed from hand to 
15 hand. Then a squaw would drop a piece of buffalo-fat on the 
dull embers. Instantly a bright flame would leap up, darting its 
light to the very apex of the tall conical structure, where the top 
of the slender poles that supported the covering of hide were 
gathered together. It gilded the features of the Indians, as with 

2 animated gestures they sat around it, telling their endless stories 

of war and hunting, and displayed rude garments of skins that 
hung around the lodge; the bow, quiver, and lance, suspended 
over the resting-place of the chief, and the rifles and powder-horns 
of the two white guests. For a moment all would be bright as 

2 5 day ; then the flames would die out ; fitful flashes from the embers 

would illumine the lodge, and then leave it in darkness. Then 
the light would wholly fade, and the lodge and all within it be 
involved again in obscurity. 

As I left the lodge next morning, I was saluted by howling 

3 and yelping all around the village, and half its canine population 

rushed forth to the attack. Being as cowardly as they were 
clamorous, they kept jumping about me at the distance of a few 
yards, only one little cur about ten inches long having spirit 
enough to make a direct assault. He dashed valiantly at the 






THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 135 

leather tassel which in the Dahcotah fashion was trailing behind 
the heel of my moccasin, and kept his hold, growling and snarling 
all the while, though every step I made almost jerked him over 
on his back. As I knew that the eyes of the whole village were 
on the watch to see if I showed any sign of fear, I walked 5 
forward without looking to the right or left, surrounded wherever 
I went by this magic circle of dogs. When I came to Reynal's 
lodge I sat down by it, on which the dogs dispersed, growling, to 
their respective quarters. Only one large white one remained, 
running about before me and showing his teeth. I called him, 10 
but he only growled the more. I looked at him well. He was 
fat and sleek ; just such a dog as I wanted. "My friend," thought 
I, "you shall pay for this! I will have you eaten this very 
morning !" 

I intended that day to give the Indians a feast, by way of 15 
conveying a favorable impression of my character and dignity; 
and a white dog is the dish which the customs of the Dahcotah 
prescribe for all occasions of formality and importance. I con- 
sulted Reynal : he soon discovered that an old woman in the next 
lodge was owner of the white dog. I took a gaudy cotton hand- 2 
kerchief, and, laying it on the ground, arranged some vermilion, 
beads, and other trinkets upon it. Then the old squaw was 
summoned. I pointed to the dog and to the handkerchief. She 
gave a scream of delight, snatched up the prize, and vanished 
with it into her lodge. For a few more trifles, I engaged the 25 
services of two other squaws, each of whom took the white dog 
by one of his paws and led him away behind the lodges. Having 
killed him, they threw him into a fire to singe ; then chopped him 
up and put him into two large kettles to boil. Meanwhile, I told 
Raymond to fry in buffalo fat what little flour we had left, and 30 
also to make a kettle of tea as an additional luxury. 

The Big Crow's squaw was briskly at work sweeping out the 
lodge for the approaching festivity. I confided to my host 
himself the task of inviting the guests, thinking that I might 



136 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

thereby shift from my own shoulders the odium of neglect and 
oversight. 

When feasting is in question, one hour of the day serves an 
Indian as well as another. My entertainment came off at about 
5 eleven o'clock. At that hour, Reynal and Raymond walked across 
the area of the village to the admiration of the inhabitants, carry- 
ing the two kettles of dog-meat slung on a pole between them. 
These they placed in the center of the lodge, and then went back 
for the bread and the tea. Meanwhile, I had put on a pair of 

10 brilliant moccasins, and substituted for my old buck-skin frock 
a coat, which I had brought with me in view of such public occa- 
sions. I also made careful use of the razor, an operation which 
no man will neglect who desires to gain the good opinion of 
Indians. Thus attired, I seated myself between Reynal and 

15 Raymond at the head of the lodge. Only a few minutes elapsed 
before all the guests had come in and were seated on the ground, 
wedged together in a close circle. Each brought with him a 
wooden bowl to hold his share of the repast. When all were 
assembled, two of the officials caHed "soldiers" by the white men 

2 came forward with ladles made of the horn of the Rocky Moun- 
tain sheep and began to distribute the feast, assigning a double 
share to the old men and chiefs. The dog vanished with astonish- 
ing celerity, and each guest turned his dish bottom upward to 
show that all was gone. Then the bread was distributed in its 

2 5 turn, and finally the tea. As the "soldiers" poured it out into 

the same wooden bowls that had served for the substantial part 
of the meal, I thought it had a particularly curious and uninviting 
color. 

"Oh," said Reynal, "there was not tea enough, so I stirred 

3 some soot in the kettle to make it look strong." 

Fortunately, an Indian's palate is not very discriminating. 
The tea was well sweetened, and that was all they cared for. 

Now, the feast being over, the time for speechmaking was 
come. The Big Crow produced a flat piece of wood, on which 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 137 

he cut up tobacco and shongsasha, and mixed them in due propor- 
tions. The pipes were filled and passed from hand to hand 
around the company. Then I began my speech, each sentence 
being interpreted by Reynal as I went on, and echoed by the 
whole audience with the usual exclamations of assent and 5 
approval. As nearly as I can recollect, it was as follows: — 

"I had come," I told them, "from a country so far distant 
that at the rate they travel they could not reach it in a year." 
"How ! how !" 

"There the Meneaska were more numerous than the blades of 10 
grass on the prairie. The squaws were far more beautiful than 
any they had ever seen, and all the men were brave warriors." 
"How ! how ! how !" 

I was assailed by twinges of conscience as I uttered these last 
words. But I recovered myself and began again. I 5 

"While I was living in the Meneaska lodges, I had heard of 
the Ogillallah, how great and brave a nation they were, how they 
loved the whites, and how well they could hunt the buffalo and 
strike their enemies. I resolved to come and see if all that I 
heard was true." 2 

"How ! how ! how ! how !" 

"As I had come on horseback through the mountains, I had 
been able to bring them only a very few presents." 
. "How!" 

"But I had enough tobacco to give them all a small piece. 2 5 
They might smoke it and see how much better it was than the 
tobacco which they got from the traders." 
"How ! how ! how !" 

"I had plenty of powder, lead, knives, and tobacco at Fort 
Laramie. These I was anxious to give them, and if any of them 30 
should come to the fort before I went away, I would make them 
handsome presents." 

"How! how! how! how!" 

Raymond then cut up and distributed among them two or 



138 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

three pounds of tobacco, and old Mene-Seela began to make a 
reply. It was long, but the following was the pith of it : 

"He had always loved the whites. They' were the wisest 
people on earth. He believed they could do anything, and he 
5 was always glad when any of them came to live in the Ogillallah 
lodges. It was true I had not made them many presents, but 
the reason of it was plain. It was clear that I liked them, or 
I never should have come so far to find their village." 

Several other speeches of similar import followed, and then, 

10 this more serious matter being disposed of, there was an interval 
of smoking, laughing, and conversation. Old Mene-Seela sud- 
denly interrupted it with a loud voice: — 

"Now is a good time," he said, "when all the old men and 
chiefs are here together, to decide what the people shall do. We 

1 5 came over the mountains to make our lodges for next year. Our 
old ones are good for nothing; they are rotten and worn out. 
But we have been disappointed. We have killed buffalo-bulls 
enough, but we have found no herds of cows, and the skins of 
bulls are too thick and heavy for our squaws to make lodges of. 

2 There must be plenty of cows about the Medicine Bow Moun- 
tain. We ought to go there. To be sure, it is farther westward 
than we have ever been before, and perhaps the Snakes will 
attack us, for those hunting-grounds belong to them. But we 
must have new lodges at any rate; our old ones will not serve 

2 5 for another year. We ought not to be afraid of the Snakes. 

Our warriors are brave, and they are all ready for war. Besides, 
we have three white men with their rifles to help us." 

This speech produced a good deal of debate. As Reynal did 
not interpret what was said, I could only judge of the meaning 

3 by the features and gestures of the speakers. At the end of it, 

however, the greater number seemed to have fallen in with Mene- 
Seela's opinion. A short silence followed, and then the old man 
struck up a discordant chant, which I was told was a song of 
thanks for the entertainment I had given them. 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 139 

"Now," said he, "let us go and give the white men a chance 
to breathe." 

So the company all dispersed into the open air, and for some 
time the old chief was walking round the village, singing his song 
in praise of the feast, after the custom of the nation. 5 

At last the day drew to a close; and as the sun went down, 
the horses came trooping from the surrounding plains to be 
picketed before the dwellings of their respective masters. Soon 
within the great circle of lodges appeared another concentric 
circle of restless horses; and here and there fires glowed and 10 
flickered amid the gloom on the dusky figures around them. I 
went over and sat by the lodge of Reynal. The Eagle-Feather, 
who was a son of Mene-Seela and brother of my host the Big 
Crow, was seated there already, and I asked him if the village 
would move in the morning. He shook his head and said that 15 
nobody could tell, for, since old Mahto-Tatonka had died, the 
people had been like children that did not know their own minds. 
They were no better than a body without a head. So I, as well 
as the Indians themselves, fell asleep that night without knowing 
whether we should set out in the morning toward the country 2 
of the Snakes. 

At daybreak, however, as I was coming up from the river 
after my morning's ablutions, I saw that a movement was contem- 
plated. Some of the lodges were reduced to nothing but bare 
skeletons of poles; the leather covering of others was flapping 2 5 
in the wind as the squaws pulled it off. One or two chiefs of 
note had resolved, it seemed, on moving; and so having set their 
squaws at work, the example was follewed by the rest of the 
village. One by one the lodges were sinking down in rapid 
succession, and where the great circle of the village had been 30 
only a few moments before, nothing now remained but a ring 
of horses and Indians, crowded in confusion together. The 
ruins of the lodges were spread over the ground, together with 
kettles, stone mallets, great ladles of horn, buffalo-robes, and 



140 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

cases of painted hide, filled with dried meat. Squaws bustled 
about in busy preparation, the old hags screaming to one another 
at the stretch of their leathern lungs. The shaggy horses were 
patiently standing while the lodge-poles were lashed to their 
5 sides, and the baggage piled upon their backs. The dogs, with 
tongues lolling out, lay lazily panting and waiting for the time 
of departure. Each warrior sat on the ground by the decaying 
embers of his fire, unmoved amid the confusion, holding in his 
hand the long trail-rope of his horse. 

10 As their preparations were completed, each family moved off 

the grpund. The crowd was rapidly melting away. I could 
see them crossing the river, and passing in quick succession 
along the profile of the hill on the farther side. When all were 
gone, I mounted and set out after them, followed by Raymond, 

15 and, as we gained the summit, the whole village came in view at 
once, straggling away for a mile or more over the barren plains 
before us. Everywhere glittered the iron points of lances. The 
sun never shone upon a more strange array. Here were the 
heavy-laden pack-horses, some wretched old women leading them, 

2 and two or three children clinging to their backs. Here were 
mules or ponies covered from head to tail with gaudy trappings, 
and mounted by some gay young squaw, grinning bashfulness and 
pleasure as the Meneaska looked at her. Boys with miniature 
bows and arrows wandered over the plains, little naked children 

2 5 ran along on foot, and numberless dogs scampered among the 

feet of the horses. The young braves, gaudy with paint and 
feathers, rode in groups among the crowd, often galloping, two 
or three at once along the line, to try the speed of their horses. 
Here and there you might see a rank of sturdy pedestrians stalk- 

3 ing along in their white buffalo-robes. These were the dignitaries 

of the village, the old men and warriors, to whose age and exper- 
ience that wandering democracy yielded a silent deference. With 
the rough prairie and the broken hills for its background, the 
restless scene was striking and picturesque beyond description. 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 141 

Days and weeks made me familiar with it, but never impaired 
its effect upon my fancy. 

As we moved on, the broken column grew yet more scattered 
and disorderly, until, as we approached the foot of a hill, I saw 
the old men before mentioned seating themselves in a line upon 5 
the ground in advance of the whole. They lighted a pipe and 
sat smoking, laughing, and telling stories, while the people, stop- 
ping as they successively came up, were soon gathered in a crowd 
behind them. Then the old men rose, drew their buffalo-robes 
over their shoulders, and strode on as before. Gaining the top 10 
of the hill, we found a steep declivity before us. There was 
not a minute's pause. The whole descended in a mass, amid 
dust and confusion. The horses braced their feet as they slid 
down, women and children screamed, dogs yelped as they were 
trodden upon, while stones and earth went rolling to the bottom. 1 5 
In a few moments I could see the village from the summit, spread- 
ing again far and wide over the plain below. 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 
Born in Boston, Mass., 1803; died at Concord, Mass., 1882 

CONCORD HYMN 

Born in Boston, Mass., 1803; died in Concord, Mass., 1882 

By the rude bridge that arched the flood, 

Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, 
Here once the embattled farmers stood, \ ^ 

And fired the shot heard round the world\ 

The foe long since in silence slept ; 

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps ; 
And Time the ruined bridge has swept 

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. 25 



142 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

On this green bank, by this soft stream, 

We set to-day a votive stone; 
That memory may their deed redeem, 

When, like our sires, our sons are gone. 

5 Spirit, that made those heroes dare 

To die, and leave their children free, 
Bid Time and Nature gently spare 
The shaft we raise to them and thee. 

THE RHODORA 
On Being Asked Whence Is the Flower 

In May, when sea winds pierced our solitudes, 
10 I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, 

Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, 

To please the desert and the sluggish brook. 

The purple petals, fallen in the pool, 

Made the black water with their beauty gay ; 
15 Here might the redbird come his plumes to cool, 

And court the flower that cheapens his array. 

Rhodora ! if the sages ask thee why 

This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, 

Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, 
2 Then Beauty is its own excuse for being: 

Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose ! 

I never thought to ask, I never knew : 

But, in my simple ignorance, suppose 

The self-same Power that brought me there brought you. 

DAYS 

25 Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days, 

Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes, 
And marching single in an endless file, 
Bring diadems and fagots in their hands. 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 143 

To each they offer gifts after his will, 

Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them all. 

I, in my pleached garden, watched the pomp, 

Forgot my morning wishes, hastily 

Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day 5 

Turned and departed silent. I, too late, 

Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn. 

FORERUNNERS 

Long I followed happy guides, 

I could never reach their sides ; 

Their step is forth, and, ere the day 10 

Breaks up their leaguer, and away. 

Keen my sense, my heart was young, 

Right good-will my sinews strung, 

But no speed of mine avails 

To hunt upon their shining trails. 15 

On and away, their hasting feet 

Make the morning proud and sweet ; 

Flowers they strew, — I catch the scent; 

Or tone of silver instrument 

Leaves on the wind melodious trace ; 2 

Yet I could never see their face. 

On eastern hills I see their smokes, 

Mixed with mist by distant lochs. 

I met many travelers 

Who the road had surely kept; 25 

They saw not my fine revelers, — 

These had crossed them while they slept. 

Some had heard their fair report, 

In the country or the court. 

Fleetest couriers alive 30 

Never yet could once arrive, 



■v. 



144 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

As they went or they returned, 
At the house where these sojourned. 
Sometimes their strong speed they slacken, 
Though they are not overtaken; 
5 In sleep their jubilant troop is near, — 

I tuneful voices overhear; 
It may be in wood or waste, — 
At unawares 'tis come and past. 
Their near camp my spirit knows 
10 By signs gracious as rainbows. 

I thenceforward and long after 
Listen for their harp-like laughter, 
And carry in my heart, for days, 
Peace that hallows rudest ways. 



VOLUNTARIES 

(Extract) 

15 In an age of fops and toys, 

Wanting wisdom, void of right, 
Who shall nerve heroic boys 
To hazard all in Freedom's fight, — 
Break sharply off their jolly games, 

2 Forsake their comrades gay 

And quit proud homes and youthful dames 
For famine, toil, and fray? 
Yet on the nimble air benign 
Speed nimbler messages, 

2 5 That waft the breath of grace divine 

To hearts in sloth and ease. 
So nigh is grandeur to our dust, 
So near is God to man, 
When duty whispers low, Thou must, 
The youth replies, / can. 






THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 145 

SELF-RELIANCE 

I read the other day some verses written by an eminent painter 
which were original and not conventional. The soul always 
hears an admonition in such lines, let the subject be what it may. 
The sentiment they instill is of more value than any thought they 
may contain. To believe your own thought, to believe that what 5 
is true for you in your private heart is true for all men, — that 
is genius. Speak your latent conviction, and it shall be the 
universal sense; for the inmost in due time becomes the out- 
most, — and our first thought is rendered back to us by the 
trumpets of the Last Judgment. Familiar as the voice of the 10 
mind is to each, the highest merit we ascribe to Moses, Plato, 
and Milton is that they set at naught books and traditions, and 
spoke not what men, but what they thought. A man should 
learn to detect and watch that gleam of light which flashes across 
his mind from within, more than the luster of the firmament of 15 
bards and sages. Yet he dismisses without notice his thought, 
because it is his. In every work of genius we recognize our own 
rejected thoughts: they come back to us with a certain alienated 
majesty. Great works of art have no more affecting lesson for 
us than this. They teach us to abide by our spontaneous impres- 2 
sion with good-humored inflexibility then most when the whole 
cry of voices is on the other side. Else, to-morrow a stranger 
will say with masterly good sense precisely what we have thought 
and felt all the time, and we shall be forced to take with shame 
our own opinion from another. 2 5 

There is a time in every man's education when he arrives at 
the conviction that envy is ignorance; that imitation is suicide; 
that he must take himself for better, for worse, as his portion; 
that though the wide universe is full of good, no kernel of 
nourishing corn can come to him but through his toil bestowed 30 
on that plot of ground which is given to him to till. The power 
which resides in him is new in nature, and none but he knows 



146 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

what that is which he can do, nor does he know until he has 
tried. Not for nothing one face, one character, one fact makes 
much impression on him, and another none. This sculpture in 
the memory is not without preestablished harmony. The eye 
B was placed where one ray should fall, that it might testify of that 
particular ray. We but half express ourselves and are ashamed 
of that divine idea which each of us represents. It may be safely 
. trusted as proportionate and of good issues, so it be faithfully 
imparted, but God will not have his work made manifest by 

10 cowards. A man is relieved and gay when he has put his heart 
int© his work and done his best; but what he has said or done 
otherwise shall give him no peace. It is a deliverance which 
does not deliver. In the attempt his genius deserts him; no 
muse befriends ; no invention, no hope. 

1 5 Trust thyself : every heart vibrates to that iron string. Accept 

the place the divine Providence has found for you, the society of 
your c@ntemporaries, the connection of events. Great men have 
always done so, and confided themselves childlike to the genius 
of their age, betraying their perception that the absolutely trust- 

2 worthy was seated at their heart, working through their hands, 
predominating in all their being. And we are now men, and 
must accept in the highest mind the same transcendent destiny; 
and not minors and invalids in a protected corner, not cowards 
fleeing before a revolution, but guides, redeemers, and bene- 

25 factors, obeying the Almighty effort, and advancing on Chaos 
and the Dark. 
******* 

Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist. He who 
would gather immortal palms must not be hindered by the name 
30 of goodness, but must explore if it be goodness. Nothing is at 
last sacred but the integrity of your own mind. Absolve you to 
yourself, and you shall have the suffrage of the world. I 
remember an answer which when quite young I was prompted 
to make to a valued adviser, who was wont to importune me with 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 147 

the dear old doctrines of the church. On my saying, What have 
I to do with the sacredness of traditions, if I live wholly from 
within? my friend suggested: "But these impulses may be from 
below, not from above." I replied: "They do not seem to me 
to be such; but if I am the Devil's child, I will live then from 5. 
the Devil." No law can be sacred to me but that of my nature. 
Good and bad are but names very readily transferable to that or 
this; the only right is what is after my constitution, the only 
wrong what is against it. A man is to carry himself in the 
presence of all opposition, as if everything were titular and 10 
ephemeral but he. I am ashamed to think how easily we capitu- 
late to badges and names, to large societies and dead institutions. 
Every decent and well-spoken individual affects and sways me 
more than is right. I ought to go upright and vital, and speak 
the rude truth in all ways. If malice and vanity wear the coat 15 
of philanthropy, shall that pass? If an angry bigot assumes this 
bountiful cause of Abolition and comes to me with his last news 
from Barbadoes, why should I not say to him: "Go loVe thy 
infant; love thy wood-chopper: be good-natured and modest: 
have that grace ; and never varnish your hard, uncharitable ambi- 2 
tion with this incredible tenderness for black folk a thousand 
miles off. Thy love afar is spite at home. ,, Rough and graceless 
would be such greeting, but truth is handsomer than the affecta- 
tion of love. Your goodness must have some edge to it,— else 
it is none. The doctrine of hatred must be preached as the 2 5 
counteraction of the doctrine of love when that pules and whines. 
I shun father and mother and wife and brother, when my genius 
calls me. T would write on the lintels of the door-post, Whtm. 
I hope it is somewhat better than whim at last, but we cannot 
spend the dav in explanation. Expect me not to show cause whv 
I seek or why I exclude company. Then, again, do not tell me, 
as a good man did to-dav, of my obligation to put all poor men 
in good situations. Are they my poor? T tell thee, thou foolish 
philanthropist, that I grudge the dollar, the dime, the cent, 1 



10 



148 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

give to such men as do not belong to me and to whom I do not 
belong. There is a class of persons to whom by all spiritual 
affinity I am bought and sold; for them I will go to prison, if 
need be; but your miscellaneous popular charities; the educa- 
tion at college of fools; the building of meeting-houses to the 
vain end to which many now stand ; alms to sots ; and the thou- 
sandfold Relief Societies ; — though I confess with shame I some- 
times succumb and give the dollar, it is a wicked dollar which 
by and by I shall have the manhood to withhold. 

Virtues are, in the popular estimate, rather the exception than 

the rule. There is the man and his virtues. Men do what is 

called a good action, as some piece of courage or charity, much 

as they would pay a fine in expiation of daily non-appearance 

on parade. Their works are done as an apology or extenuation 

15 of their living in the world, — as invalids and the insane pay a 

high board. Their virtues are penances. I do not wish to 

expiate, but to live. My life is for itself and not for a spectacle. 

I much prefer tkat it should be of a lower strain, so it be genuine 

and equal, than that it should be glittering and unsteady. I 

2 ° wish it to be sound and sweet, and not to need diet and bleeding. 

T ask primary evidence that you are a man, and refuse this appeal 

from the man to his actions. I know that for myself it makes 

no difference whether I do or forbear those actions which are 

reckoned excellent. I cannot consent to pay for a privilege 

25 where I have intrinsic right. Few and mean as my gifts may 

be, I actually am, and do not need for my own assurance or the 

assurance of my fellows any secondary testimony. 

What I must do is all that concerns me, not what the people 
think. This rule, equally arduous in actual and in intellectual 
life, may serve for the whole distinction between greatness and 
meanness. It is the harder, because you will always find those 
who think they know what is your duty better than you know 
it. It is easy in the world to live after the world's opinion; it 
is easy in solitude to live after our own; but the great man 



30 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 149 

is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness 
the independence of solitude. 

The objection to conforming to usages that have become dead 
to you is that it scatters your force. It loses your time and 
blurs the impression of your character. If you maintain a dead 5 
church, contribute to a dead Bible-society, vote with a great party 
either for the government or against it, spread your table like 
base housekeepers, — under all these screens I have difficulty to 
detect the precise man you are. And, of course, so much force 
is withdrawn from your proper life. But do your work, and 10 
I shall know you. Do your work, and you shall reinforce 
yourself. A man must consider what a blindman's-bufl is this 
game of conformity. If I know your sect, I anticipate your 
argument. I hear a preacher announce for his text and topic 
the expediency of one of the institutions of his church. Do I 15 
not know beforehand that not possibly can he say a new and 
spontaneous word? Do I not know that, with all this ostenta- 
tion of examining the grounds of the institution, he will do no 
such thing? Do I not know that he is pledged to himself not 
to look but at one side, — the permitted side, not as a man, but 2 
as a parish minister? He is a retained attorney, and these airs 
of the bench are the emptiest affectation. Well, most men have 
bound their eyes with one'or another handkerchief, and attached 
themselves to some one of these communities of opinion. This 
conformity makes them not false in a few particulars, authors 2 5 
of a few lies, but false in all particulars. Their every truth is 
not quite true. Their two is not the real two, their four not 
the real four; so that every word they say chagrins us, and 
we know not where to begin to set them right. Meantime, nature 
is not slow to equip us in the prison-uniform of the party to 3 
which we adhere. We come to wear one cut of face and figure, 
and acquire by degrees the gentlest asinine expression. There 
is a mortifying experience in particular which does not fail to 
wreak itself also in the general history ; I mean "the foolish face 



150 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

of praise," the forced smile which we put on in company where 
we do not feel at ease in answer to conversation which does not 
interest us. The muscles, not spontaneously moved, but moved 
by a low usurping willfulness, grow tight about the outline of the 
5 face with the most disagreeable sensation. 

For nonconformity the world whips you with its displeasure. 
And, therefore, a man must know how to estimate a sour face. 
The bystanders look askance on him in the public street or in 
the friend's parlor. If this aversation had its origin in contempt 
10 and resistance like his own, he might well go home with a sad 
countenance ; but the sour faces of the multitude, like their sweet 
faces, have no deep cause, but are put on and off as the wind 
blows and a newspaper directs. Yet is the discontent of the 
multitude more formidable than that of the senate and the college. 
15 It is easy enough for a firm man who knows the world to brook 
the rage of the cultivated classes. Their rage is decorous and 
prudent, for they are timid as being very vulnerable themselves. 
But when to their feminine rage the indignation of the people is 
added, when the ignorant and the poor are aroused, when the 
unintelligent brute force that lies at the bottom of society is 
made to growl and mow, it needs the habit of magnanimity and 
religion to treat it godlike as a trifle of no concernment. 

The other terror that scares us from self-trust is our con- 
sistency ; a reverence for our past act or word, because the eyes 
of others have no other data for computing our orbit than our 
past acts, and we are loath to disappoint them. 

But why should you keep your head over your shoulder? 
Why drag about this corpse of your memory, lest you contradict 
somewhat von have stated in this or that public place? Suppose 
you should contradict yourself; what then? It seems to be a 
rule of wisdom never to rely on your memory alone, scarcely 
even in acts of pure memory, but to bring the past for judgment 
into the thousand-eyed present, and live ever in a new day. In 
your metaphysics you have denied personality to the Deity ; yet 



20 



25 



30 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 151 

when the devout motions of the soul come, yield to them heart 
and life, though they should clothe God with shape and color. 
Leave your theory, as Joseph his coat in the hand of the harlot, 
and flee. 

A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored 5 
by little statesmen and philosophers and divines. With con- 
sistency a great soul has simply nothing to do. He may as well 
concern himself with the shadow on the wall. Speak what you 
think now in hard words, and to-morrow speak what to-morrow 
thinks in hard words again, though it contradict everything you 10 
said to-day. — "Ah, so you shall be sure to be misunderstood." — 
Is it so bad, then, to be misunderstood? Pythagoras was misun- 
derstood, and Socrates, and Jesus, and Luther, and Copernicus, 
and Galileo, and Newton, and every pure and wise spirit that 
ever took flesh. To be great is to be misunderstood. 15 

I suppose no man can violate his nature. All the sallies of 
his will are rounded in by the law of his being, as the inequal- 
ities of Andes and Himmaleh are insignificant in the curve of 
the sphere. Nor does it matter how you gauge and try him. 
A character is like an acrostic or Alexandrian stanza; — read it 20 
forward, backward, or across, it still spells the same thing. In 
this pleasing, contrite wood-life which God allows me, let me 
record day by day my honest thought without prospect or retro- 
spect, and, I cannot doubt, it will be found symmetrical, though 
I mean it not and see it not. My book should smell of pines 25 
and resound with the hum of insects. The swallow over my 
window should interweave that thread or straw he carries in 
his bill into my web also. We pass for what we are. Character 
teaches above our wills. Men imagine that they communicate 
their virtue or vice only by overt actions, and do not see that 
virtue or vice emit a breath every moment. 

There will be an agreement in whatever variety of actions, so 
they be each honest and natural in their hour. For of one will, 
the actions will be harmonious, however unlike they seem. These 



30 



10 



15 



152 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

varieties are lost sight of at a little distance, at a little height of 
thought. One tendency unites them all. The voyage of the best 
ship is a zigzag line of a hundred tacks. See the line from a 
sufficient distance, and it straightens itself to the average tendency. 
Your genuine action will explain itself, and will explain your 
other genuine actions. Your conformity explains nothing. Act 
singly, and what you have already done singly will justify you 
now. Greatness appeals to the future. If I cas be firm enough 
to-day to do right and scorn eyes, I must have done so much 
right before as to defend me now. Be it how it will, do right 
now. Always scorn appearances, and you always may. The 
force of character is cumulative. All the foregone days of virtue 
work their health into this. What makes the majesty of the 
heroes of the senate and the field, which so fills the imagina- 
tion? The consciousness of a train of great days and victories 
behind. They shed an united light on the advancing actor. He 
is attended as by a visible escort of angels. That is it which 
throws thunder into Chatham's voice, and dignity into Wash- 
ington's port, and America into Adams's eye. Honor is vener- 
able to us because it is no ephemeris. It is always ancient virtue. 
We worship it to-day because it is not of to-day. We love it 
and pay it homage, because it is not a trap for our love and 
homage, but is self-dependent, self-derived, and, therefore, of 
an old immaculate pedigree, even if shown in a young person. 

I hope in these days we have heard the last of conformity 
and consistency. Let the words be gazetted and ridiculous 
henceforward. Instead of the gong for dinner, let us hear a 
whistle from the Spartan fife. Let us never bow and apologize 
more. A great man is coming to eat at my house. I do not 
30 wish to please him; I wish that he should wish to please me. 
I will stand here for humanity, and though I would make it kind, 
I would make it true. Let us affront and reprimand the smooth 
mediocrity and squalid contentment of the times, and hurl in 
the face of custom and trade and office the fact which is the 



20 



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THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 153 

upshot of all history, that there is a great responsible Thinker 

and Actor working wherever a man works; that a true man 

belongs to no other time or place, but is the center of things. 

Where he is, there is nature. He measures you, and all men, 

and all events. Ordinarily, everybody in society reminds us of 6 

somewhat else, or of some other person. Character, reality, 

reminds you of nothing else; it takes place of the whole creation. 
******* 

Let a man then know his worth, and keep things under his 
feet. Let him not peep or steal, or skulk up and down with the 10 
air of a charity-boy, a bastard, or an interloper, in the world 
which exists for him. But the man in the street, finding no 
worth in himself which corresponds to the force which built a 
tower or sculptured a marble god, feels poor when he looks on 
these. To him a palace, a statue, a costly book have an alien 15 
and forbidding air, much like a gay equipage, and seem to say 
like that, "Who are you, sir?" Yet they all are his, suitors for 
his notice, petitioners to his faculties that they will come out and 
take possession. The picture waits for my verdict: it is not to 
command me, but I am to settle its claims to praise. That 20 
popular fable of the sot who was picked up dead drunk in the 
street, carried to the duke's house, washed and dressed and laid 
in the duke's bed, and, on his waking, treated with all obsequious 
ceremony like the duke and assured that he has been insane, owes 
its popularity to the fact that it symbolizes so well the state of 25 
man, who is in the world a sort of sot, but now and then wakes 
up, exercises his reason, and finds himself a true prince. 

Our reading is mendicant and sycophantic. In history, our 
imagination plays us false. Kingdom and lordship, power and 
estate are a gaudier vocabulary than private John and Edward 30 
in a small house and common day's work; but the things of life 
are the same to both ; the sum total of both is the same. Why 
all this deference to Alfred, and Scanderbeg, and Gustavus? 
Suppose they were virtuous; did they wear out virtue? As 



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154 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

great a stake depends on your private act to-day as followed their 
public and renowned steps. When private men shall act with 
original views, the luster will be transferred from the actions 
of kings to those of gentlemen. 

The world has been instructed by its kings, who have so 
magnetized the eyes of nations. It has been taught by this 
colossal symbol the mutual reverence that is due from man to 
man. The joyful loyalty with which men have everywhere 
suffered the king, the noble, or the great proprietor to walk 
among them by a law of his own, make his own scale of men 
and things and reverse theirs, pay for benefits not with money 
but with honor, and represent the law in his person, was the 
hieroglyphic by which they obscurely signified their consciousness 
of their own right and comeliness, the right of every man. 

The magnetism which all original action exerts is explained 
when we inquire the reason of self-trust. Who is the Trustee? 
What is the aboriginal Self, on which a universal reliance may 
be grounded? What is the nature and power of that science- 
baffling star, without parallax, without calculable elements, which 

^0 shoots a ray of beauty even into trivial and impure actions, if 
the least mark of independence appear? The inquiry leads us 
to that source, at once the essence of genius, of virtue, and of 
life, which we call Spontaneity or Instinct. We denote this 
primary wisdom as Intuition, whilst all later teachings are 

2 5 tuitions. In that deep force, the last fact behind which analysis 
cannot go, all things find their common origin. For, the sense 
of being which in calm hours rises, we know not how, in the 
soul is not diverse from things, from space, from light, from 
time, from man, but one with them, and proceeds obviously 

30 from the same source whence their life and being also proceed. 
We first share the life by which things exist, and afterward see 
them as appearances in nature, and forget that we have shared 
their cause. Here is the fountain of action and of thought. 
Here are the lungs of that inspiration which giveth man wisdom, 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 155 

and which cannot be denied without impiety and atheism. We 
lie in the lap of immense intelligence, which makes us receivers 
of its truth and organs of its activity. When we discern justice, 
when we discern truth, we do nothing of ourselves, but allow a 
passage to its beams. If we ask whence this comes, if we seek 5 
to pry into the soul that causes, all philosophy is at fault. Its 
presence or its absence is all we can affirm. Every man discrim- 
inates between the voluntary acts of his mind, and his involuntary 
perceptions, and knows that to his involuntary perceptions a 
perfect faith is due. He may err in the expression of them, 10 
but he knows that these things are so, like day and night, not to 
be disputed. My willful actions and acquisitions are but 
roving ; — the idlest reverie, the faintest native emotion, command 
my curiosity and respect. Thoughtless people contradict as 
readily the statement of perceptions as of opinions, or rather 15 
much more readily ; for, they do not distinguish between percep- 
tion and notion. They fancy that I choose to see this or that 
thing. But perception is not whimsical; it is fatal. If I see a 
trait, my children will see it after me, and in course of time all 
mankind, — although it may chance that no one has seen it before 2 
me. For my perception of it is as much a fact as the sun. 

The relations of the soul to the divine spirit are so pure that 
it is profane to seek to interpose helps. It must be that when 
God speaketh he should communicate, not one thing, but all 
things; should fill the world with his voice; should scatter forth 25 
light, nature, time, souls, from the center of the present thought ; 
and new date and new create the whole. Whenever a mind is 
simple and receives a divine wisdom, old things pass away, — 
means, teachers, texts, temples, fall; it lives now, and absorbs 
past and future into the present hour. All things are made 30 
sacred by relation to it,— one as much as another. All things are 
dissolved to their center by their cause, and, in the universal 
miracle, petty and particular miracles disappear. If, therefore, a 
man claims to know and speak of God and carries you backward to 



156 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

the phraseology of some old moldered nation in another country, 
in another world, believe him not. Is the acorn better than the 
oak which is its fullness and completion? Is the parent better 
than the child into whom he has cast his ripened being? Whence, 
5 ]then, this worship of the past? The centuries are conspirators 
against the sanity and authority of the soul. Time and space 
are but physiological colors which the eye makes, but the soul is 
light; where it is, is day; where it was, is night; and history is 
an impertinence and an injury if it be anything more than a 

10 j cheerful apologue or parable of my being and becoming. 

Man is timid and apologetic; he is no longer upright; he 
dares not say "I think," "I am," but quotes some saint or sage. 
He is ashamed before the blade of grass or the blowing rose. 
These roses under my window make no reference to former 

15 roses or to better ones; they are for what they are; they exist 
with God to-day. There is no time to them. There is simply 
the rose ; it is perfect in every moment of its existence. Before 
a leaf-bud has burst, its whole life acts ; in the full-blown flower 
there is no more ; in the leafless root there is no less. Its nature 

2 is satisfied, and it satisfies nature in all moments alike. But 
man postpones or remembers; he does not live in the present, 
but with reverted eye laments the past, or, heedless of the riches 
that surround him, stands on tiptoe to foresee the future. He 
cannot be happy and strong until he, too, lives with nature in 

2 5 the present, above time. 

This should be plain enough. Yet see what strong intellects 
dare not yet hear God himself, unless he speak the phraseology 
of I know not what David, or Jeremiah, or Paul. We shall not 
always set so great a price on a few texts, on a few lives. We 

30 are like children who repeat by rote the sentences of grandames 
and tutors, and, as they grow older, of the men and talents and 
characters they chance to see, — painfully recollecting the exact 
words they spoke; afterward, when they come into the point of 
view which those had who uttered these sayings, they understand 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 157 

them and are willing to let the words go ; for, at any time, they 
can use words as good when occasion comes. If we live truly, 
we shall see truly. It is as easy for the strong man to be strong 
as it is for the weak to be weak. When we have new perception, 
we shall gladly disburden the memory of its hoarded treasures 5 
as old rubbish. When a man lives with God, his voice shall be 
as sweet as the murmur of the brook and the rustle of the corn. 

And now at last the highest truth on this subject remains 
unsaid ; probably cannot be said ; for all that we say is the f ar-off 
remembering of the intuition. That thought, by what I can now 10 
nearest approach to say it, is this. When good is near you, when 
you have life in yourself, it is not by any known or accustomed 
way ; you shall not discern the footprints of any other ; you shall 
not see the face of man ; you shallnot hear any name ; — the way, 
the thought, the good, shall be wholly strange and new. It shall 1 5 
exclude example and experience. You take the way from man, 
not to man. All persons that ever existed are its forgotten 
ministers. Fear and hope are alike beneath it. There is some- 
what low even in hope. In the hour of vision, there is nothing 
that can be called gratitude, nor properly joy. The soul raised 2 
over passion beholds identity and eternal causation, perceives the 
self-existence of Truth and Right, and calms itself with knowing 
that all things go well. Vast spaces of nature, the Atlantic 
Ocean, the South Sea,— long intervals of time, years, centuries — 
are of no account. This which I think and feel underlay every 25 
former state of life and circumstances, as it does underlie my 
present, and what is called life, and what is called death. 

Life only avails, not the having lived. Power ceases in the 
instant of repose ; it resides in the moment of transition from a 
past to a new state, in the shooting of the gulf, in the darting 30 
to an aim. This one fact the world hates, that the soul becomes; 
for that forever degrades the past, turns all riches to poverty, all 
reputation to shame, confounds the saint with the rogue. Why, 
then, do we prate of self-reliance? Inasmuch as the soul is 



158 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

present, there will be power not confident but agent. To talk 
of reliance is a poor external way of speaking. Speak rather 
of that which relies because it works and is. Who has more 
obedience than I masters me, though he should not raise his 
5 finger. Round him I must revolve by the gravitation of spirits. 
We fancy it rhetoric, when we speak of eminent virtue. We do 
not yet see that virtue is Height, and that a man or a company 
of men, plastic and permeable to principles, by the law of nature 
must overpower and ride all cities, nations, kings, rich men, 

1 poets, who are not. 

This is the ultimate fact which we so quickly reach on this, 
as on every topic, the resolution of all into the ever-blessed One. 
Self-existence is the attribute of the Supreme Cause, and it con- 
stitutes the measure of good by the degree in which it enters into 

1 5 all lower forms. All things real are so by so much virtue as 
they contain. Commerce, husbandry, hunting, whaling, war, 
eloquence, personal weight are somewhat, and engage my respect 
as examples of its presence and impure action. I see the same 
law working in nature for conservation and growth. Power is 

2 o in nature the essential measure of right. Nature suffers nothing 
to remain in her kingdoms which cannot help itself. The 
genesis and maturation of a planet, its poise and orbit, the bended 
tree recovering itself from the strong wind, the vital resources 
of every animal and vegetable are demonstrations of the self- 

2 5 sufficing, and therefore self-relying soul. 

Thus all concentrates: let us not rove; let us sit at home 
with the cause. Let us stun and astonish the intruding rabble 
of men and books and institutions by a simple declaration of the 
divine fact. Bid the invaders take the shoes from off their 

3 feet, for God is here within. Let our simplicity judge them, and 

our docility to our own law demonstrate the poverty of nature 
and fortune beside our native riches. 

But now we are a mob. Man does not stand in awe of man, 
nor is his genius admonished to stay at home, to put itself in 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 159 

communication with the internal ocean, but it goes abroad to 
beg a cup of water of the urns of other men. We must go alone. 
I like the silent church before the service begins better than any 
preaching. How far off, how cool, how chaste the persons look, 
begirt each one with a precinct or sanctuary ! So let us always 5 
sit. Why should we assume the faults of our friend, or wife, 
or father, or child, because they sit around our hearth, or are 
said to have the same blood? All men have my blood, and I 
have all men's. Not for that will I adopt their petulance or 
folly, even to the extent of being ashamed of it. But your isola- 10 
tion must not be mechanical, but spiritual; that is, must be 
elevation. At times the whole world seems to be in conspiracy 
to importune you with emphatic trifles. Friend, client, child, 
sickness, fear, want, charity, all knock at once at thy closet door 
and say, "Come out unto us." But keep thy state; come not 15 
into their confusion. The power men possess to annoy me I 
give them by a weak curiosity. No man can come near me but 
through my act. "What we love that we have, but by desire 
we bereave ourselves of the love." 

If we cannot at once rise to the sanctities of obedience and 2 
faith, let us at least resist our temptations ; let us enter into the 
state of war and wake Thor and Woden, courage and constancy, 
in our Saxon breasts. This is to be done in our smooth times 
by speaking the truth. Check this lying hospitality and lying 
affection. Live no longer to the expectation of these deceived 25 
and deceiving people with whom we converse. Say to them, 
O father, O mother, O wife, O brother, O friend, I have lived 
with you after appearances hitherto. Henceforward I am the 
truth's. Be it known unto you that henceforward I obey no 
law less than the eternal law. I will have ro covenants but 30 
proximities. I shall endeavor to nourish my parents, to support 
my family, to be the chaste husband of one wife, — but these 
relations I must fill after a new and unprecedented way. I 
appeal from your customs. I must -be myself. I cannot break 



160 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

myself any longer for you, or you. If you can love me for what 
I am, we shall be the happier. If you cannot, I will still seek 
to deserve that you should. I will not hide my tastes or aver- 
sions. I will so trust that what is deep is holy that I will do 
5 strongly before the sun and moon whatever only rejoices me, 
and the heart appoints. If you are noble, I will love you; if 
you are not, I will not hurt you and myself by hypocritical atten- 
tions. If you are true, but not in the same truth with me, cleave 
to your companions ; I will seek my own. I do this not selfishly, 

10 but humbly and truly. It is alike your interest and mine, and 
all men's, however long we have dwelt in lies, to live in truth. 
Does this sound harsh to-day? You will soon love what is 
dictated by your nature as well as mine, and, if we follow the 
truth, it will bring us out safe at last. But so may you give 

!5 these friends pain. Yes, but I cannot sell my liberty and my 
power, to save their sensibility. Besides, all persons have their 
moments of reason, when they look out into the region of absolute 
truth; then will they justify me and do the same thing. 

The populace think that your rejection of popular standards 

2 is a rejection of all standard, and mere antinomianism ; and the 
bold sensualist will use the name of philosophy to gild his crimes. 
But the law of consciousness abides. There are two confes- 
sionals, in one or the other of which we must be shriven. You 
may fulfill your round of duties by clearing yourself in the 

2 5 direct, or in the reflex way. Consider whether you have satisfied 

your relations to father, mother, cousin, neighbor, town, cat, and 
dog; whether any of these can upbraid you. But I may also 
neglect this reflex standard and absolve me to myself. I have 
my own stern claims and perfect circle. It denies the name of 

3 duty to many offices that are called duties. But if I can 

discharge its debts, it enables me to dispense with the popular 
code. If any one imagines that this law is lax, let him keep 
its commandment one day. 

And truly it demands something godlike in him who has cast 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 161 

off the common motives of humanity, and has ventured to trust 
himself for a taskmaster. High be his heart, faithful his will, 
clear his sight, that he may in good earnest be doctrine, society, 
law to himself, that a simple purpose may be to him as strong as 
iron necessity is to others ! 5 

If any man consider the present aspects of what is called by 
distinction society, he will see the need of these ethics. The 
sinew and heart of man seem to be drawn out, and we are become 
timorous, desponding whimperers. We are afraid of truth, afraid 
of fortune, afraid of death, and afraid of each other. Our age 10 
yields no great and perfect persons. We want men and women 
who shall renovate life and our social state, but we see that most 
natures are insolvent, cannot satisfy their own wants, have an 
ambition out of all proportion to their practical force, and do 
lean and beg day and night continually. Our housekeeping is 15 
mendicant, our arts, our occupations, our marriages, our religion 
we have not chosen, but society has chosen for us. We are 
parlor soldiers. We shun the rugged battle of fate, where 
strength is born. 

If our young men miscarry in their first enterprises, they lose 20 
all heart. If the young merchant fails, men say he is ruined. 
If the finest genius studies at one of our colleges and^ is not 
installed in an office within one year afterward in the cities or 
suburbs of Boston or New York, it seems to his friends and to 
himself that he is right in being disheartened and in complaining 2 5 
the rest of his life. A sturdy lad from New Hampshire or 
Vermont, who in turn tries all the professions, who teams it, 
farms it, peddles, keeps a school, preaches, edits a newspaper, 
goes to Congress, buys a township, and so forth, in successive 
years, and always, like a cat, falls on his feet, is worth a hundred 30 
of these city dolls. He walks abreast with his days, and feels 
no shame in not "studying a profession," for he does not postpone 
his life but lives already. He has not one chance, but a hundred 
chances. Let a Stoic open the resources of man, and tell men 



162 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

they are not leaning willows, but can and must detach themselves ; 
that with the exercise of self-trust, new powers shall appear; that 
a man is the word made flesh, born to shed healing to the nations, 
that he should be ashamed of our compassion, and that the 
6 moment he acts from himself, tossing the laws, the books, 
idolatries and customs out of the window, we pity him no more, 
but thank and revere him, — and that teacher shall restore the life 
of man to splendor and make his name dear to all history. 

It is easy to see that a greater self-reliance must work a revo- 

10 lution in all the offices and relations of men; in their religion; 
in their education ; in their pursuits ; their modes of living ; their 
association ; in their property ; in their speculative views. 

I. In what prayers do men allow themselves! That which 
they call a holy office is not so much as brave and manly. Prayer 

1 5 looks abroad and asks for some foreign addition to come through 
some foreign virtue, and loses itself in endless mazes of natural 
and supernatural, and mediatorial and miraculous. Prayer that 
craves a particular commodity, — anything less than all good, — is 
vicious. Prayer is the contemplation of the facts of life from 

2 the highest point of view. It is the soliloquy of a beholding and 
jubilant soul. It is the spirit of God pronouncing his works 
good. But prayer as a means to effect a private end is mean- 
ness and theft. It supposes dualism and not unity in nature and 
consciousness. As soon as the man is at one with God, he will 

2 5 not beg. He will then see prayer in all action. The prayer of 

the farmer kneeling in his field to weed it, the prayer of the 
rower kneeling with the stroke of his oar, are true prayers 
heard throughout nature, though for cheap ends. Caratach, in 
Fletcher's Bonduca, when admonished to inquire the mind of 

3 o the god Audate, replies, — 

"His hidden meaning lies in our endeavors; 
Our valors are our best gods." 

Another sort of false prayers are our regrets. Discontent 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 163 

is the want of self-reliance : it is infirmity of will. Regret calam- 
ities, if you can thereby help the sufferer ; if not, attend your own 
work, and already the evil begins to be repaired. Our sympathy 
is just as base. We come to them who weep foolishly and sit 
down and cry for company, instead of imparting to them truth 5 
and health in rough electric shocks, putting them once more in 
communication with their own reason. The secret of fortune 
is joy in our hands. Welcome evermore to gods and men is the 
self-helping man. For him all doors are flung wide: him all 
tongues greet, all honors crown, all eyes follow with desire. Our 1 
love goes out to him and embraces him, because he did not need 
it. We solicitously and apologetically caress and celebrate him, 
because he held on his way and scorned our disapprobation. The 
gods love him because men hated him. 'To the persevering 
mortal," said Zoroaster, "the blessed Immortals are swift." 15 

As men's prayers are a disease of the will, so are their creeds 
a disease of the intellect. They say with those foolish Israelites, 
"Let not God speak to us, lest we die. Speak thou, speak any 
man with us, and we will obey." Everywhere I am hindered of 
meeting God in my brother, because he has shut his own temple 2 
doors, and recites fables merely of his brother's, or his brother's 
brother's God. Every new mind is a new classification. If it 
prove a mind of uncommon activity and power, a Locke, a 
Lavoisier, a Hutton, a Bentham, a Fourier, it imposes its classifi- 
cation on other men, and lo! a new system. In proportion to 25 
the depth of the thought, and so to the number of the objects it 
touches and brings within reach of the pupil, is his complacency. 
But chiefly is this apparent in creeds and churches, which are 
also classifications of some powerful mind acting on the elemental 
thought of duty and man's relation to the Highest. Such is 30 
Calvinism, Quakerism, Swedenborgism. The pupil takes the 
same delight in subordinating everything to the new terminology, 
as a girl who has just learned botany in seeing a new earth and 
new seasons thereby. It will happen for a time that the pupil 



164 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

will find his intellectual power has grown by the study of his 
master's mind. But in all unbalanced minds the classification 
is idolized, passes for the end and not for a speedily exhaustible 
means, so that the walls of the system blend to their eye in the 
5 remote horizon with the walls of the universe; the luminaries of 
heaven seem to them hung on the arch their master built. They 
cannot imagine how you aliens have any right to see, — how you 
can see ; "It must be somehow that you stole the light from us." 
They do not yet perceive that light, unsystematic, indomitable, 

10 will break into any cabin, even into theirs. Let them chirp 
awhile and call it their own. If they are honest and do well, 
presently their neat new pinfold will be too strait and low, will 
crack, will lean, will rot and vanish, and the immortal light, all 
young and joyful, million-orbed, million-colored, will beam over 

15 the universe as on the first morning. 

2. It is for want of self-culture that the superstition of Travel- 
ing, whose idols are Italy, England, Egypt, retains its fascination 
for all educated Americans. They who made England, Italy, or 
Greece venerable in the imagination did so by sticking fast where 

20 they were, like an axis of the earth. In manly hours we feel that 
duty is our place. The soul is no traveler ; the wise man stays at 
home, and when his necessities, his duties, on any occasion call 
him from his house or into foreign lands, he is at home still, and 
shall make men sensible by the expression of his countenance that 

25 he goes the missionary of wisdom and virtue, and visits cities 
and men like a sovereign and not like an interloper or a valet. 

I have no churlish objection to the circumnavigation of the 
globe, for the purposes of art, of study, and benevolence, so that 
the man is first domesticated, or does not go abroad with the hope 

30 of finding somewhat greater than he knows. He who travels 
to be amused, or to get somewhat which he does not carry, travels 
away from himself and grows old even in youth among old things. 
In Thebes, in Palmyra, his will and mind have become old and 
dilapidated as they. He carries ruins to ruins. 






THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 165 

Traveling is a fool's paradise. Our first journeys discover 
to us the indifference of places. At home I dream that at Naples, 
at Rome, I can be intoxicated with beauty, and lose my sadness. 
I pack my trunk, embrace my friends, embark on the sea and at 
last wake up in Naples, and there beside me is the stern fact, the 5 
sad self, unrelenting, identical, that I fled from. I seek the 
Vatican and the palaces. I affect to be intoxicated with sights 
and suggestions, but I am not intoxicated. My giant goes with 
me wherever I go. 

3. But the rage of traveling is a symptom of a deeper unsound- 10 
ness affecting the whole intellectual action. The intellect is vaga- 
bond, and our system of education fosters restlessness. Our 
minds travel when our bodies are forced to stay at home. We 
imitate; and what is imitation but the traveling of the mind? 
Our houses are built with foreign taste; our shelves are garnished 15 
with foreign ornaments ; our opinions, our tastes, our faculties, 
lean and follow the Past and the Distant. The soul created the 
arts wherever they have flourished. It was in his own mind that 
the artist sought" his model. It was an application of his own 
thought to the thing to be done and the conditions to be observed. 2 
And why need we copy the Doric or the Gothic model ? Beauty, 
convenience, grandeur of thought, and quaint expression are as 
near to us as to any, and if the American artist will study with 
hope and love the precise thing to be done by him, considering 
the climate, the soil, the length of the day, the wants of the 2 5 
people, the habit and form of the government, he will create a 
house in which all these will find themselves fitted, and taste and 
sentiment will be satisfied also. 

Insist on yourself; never imitate. Your own gift you can 
present every moment with the cumulative force of a whole life's 30 
cultivation ; but of the adopted talent of another, you have only 
an extemporaneous, half possession. That which each can do 
best, none but his Maker can teach him. No man yet knows 
what it is, nor can, till that person has exhibited it. Where is 



15 



166 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

the master who could have taught Shakespeare? Where is the 
master who could have instructed Franklin, or Washington, or 
Bacon, or Newton? Every great man is a unique. The 
Scipionism of Scipio is precisely that part he could not borrow. 
5 Shakespeare will never be made by the study of Shakespeare. 
Do that which is assigned you, and you cannot hope too much 
or dare too much. There is at this moment for you an utterance 
brave and grand as that of the colossal chisel of Phidias, or trowel 
of the Egyptians, or the pen of Moses or Dante, but different 
10 from all these. Not possibly will the soul all rich, all eloquent, 
with thousand-cloven tongue, deign to repeat itself; but if you 
can hear what these patriarchs say, surely you can reply to them 
in the same pitch of voice; for the ear and the tongue are two 
organs of one nature. Abide in the simple and noble regions of 
thy life, obey thy heart, and thou shalt reproduce the Foreworld 
again. 

4- As our Religion, our Education, our Art look abroad, so 
does our spirit of society. All men plume themselves on the 
improvement of society, and no man improves. 

Society never advances. It recedes as fast on one side as 
it gains on the other. It undergoes continual changes; it is 
barbarous, it is civilized, it is christianized, it is rich, it is scien- 
tific; but this change is not amelioration. For everything that 
is given something is taken. Society acquires new arts and loses 
old instincts. What a contrast between the well-clad, reading, 
writing, thinking American, with a watch, a pencil, and a bill of 
exchange in his pocket, and the naked New Zealander, whose 
property is a club, a spear, a mat, and an undivided twentieth of 
a shed to sleep under! But compare the health of the two men, 
and you shall see that the white man has lost his aboriginal 
strength. If the traveler tell us truly, strike the savage with a 
broad axe and in a day or two the flesh shall unite and heal as 
if you struck the blow into soft pitch, and the same blow shall 
send the white to his grave. 



30 






THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 167 

The civilized man has built a coach, but has lost the use of 
his feet. He is supported on crutches, but lacks so much support 
of muscle. He has a fine Geneva watch, but he fails of the skill 
to tell the hour by the sun. A Greenwich nautical almanac he 
has, and so being sure of the information when he wants it, the 5 
man in the street does not know a star in the sky. The solstice 
he does not observe; the equinox he knows as little; and the 
whole bright calendar of the year is without a dial in his mind. 
His notebooks impair his memory ; his libraries overload his wit ; 
the insurance office increases the number of accidents ; and it may 10 
be a question whether machinery does not encumber; whether 
we have not lost by refinement some energy, by a Christianity 
intrenched in establishments and forms some vigor of wild virtue 
For every Stoic was a Stoic; but in Christendom where is the 
Christian? 15 

There is no more deviation in the moral standard than in the 
standard of height or bulk. No greater men are now than ever 
were. A singular equality may be observed between the great 
men of the first and of the last ages ; nor can all the science, art, 
religion, and philosophy of the nineteenth century avail to educate 2 
greater men than Plutarch's heroes, three or four and twenty 
centuries ago. Not in time is the race progressive. Phocion, 
Socrates, Anaxagoras, Diogenes are great men, but they leave no 
class. He who is really of their class will not be called by their 
name, but will be his own man, and, in his turn, the founder of 25 
a sect. The arts and inventions of each period are only its 
costume, and do not invigorate men. The harm of the improved 
machinery may compensate its good. Hudson and Bering accom- 
plished so much in their fishing boats as to astonish Parry and 
Franklin, whose equipment exhausted the resources of science 30 
and art. Galileo, with an opera-glass, discovered a more splendid 
series of celestial phenomena than any one since. Columbus 
found the New World in an undecked boat. It is curious to see 
the periodical disuse and perishing of means and machinery which 



15 



168 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

were introduced with loud laudation a few years or centuries 
before. The great genius returns to essential man. We 
reckoned the improvements of the art of war among the triumphs 
of science, and yet Napoleon conquered Europe by the bivouac, 
5 which consisted of falling back on naked valor and disencum- 
bering it of all aids. The Emperor held it impossible to make a 
perfect army, says Las Casas, "without abolishing our arms, 
magazines, commissaries, and carriages, until, in imitation of the 
Roman custom, the soldier should receive his supply of corn, 

10 grind it in his handmill, and bake his bread himself." 

Society is a wave. The wave moves onward, but the water 
of which it is composed does not. The same particle does not 
rise from the valley to the ridge. Its unity is only phenomenal. 
The persons who make up a nation to-day next year die, and 
their experience with them. 

And so the reliance on Property, including the reliance on 
governments which protect it, is the want of self-reliance. Men 
have looked away from themselves and at things so long that 
they have come to esteem the religious, learned, and civil institu- 
tions as guards of property, and they deprecate assaults on these, 
because they feel them to be assaults on property. They measure 
their esteem of each other by what each has, and not by what 
each is. But a cultivated man becomes ashamed of his property, 
out of new respect for his nature. Especially he hates what he 
has, if he see that it is accidental, — came to him by inheritance, or 
gift, or crime; then he feels that it is not having; it does not 
belong to him. has no root in him, and merely lies there because 
no revolution or no robber takes it away. But that which a man 
is, does always by necessity acquire, and what the man acquires 

30 is living property, which does not wait the beck of rulers, or 
mobs, or revolutions, or fire, or storm, or bankruptcies, but per- 
petually renews itself wherever the man breathes. "Thy lot or 
portion of life," said the Caliph AH, "is seeking after thee ; there- 
fore, be at rest from seeking after it." Our dependence on these 



20 



25 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 169 

foreign goods leads us to our slavish respect for numbers. The 
political parties meet in numerous conventions; the greater the 
concourse, and with each new uproar of announcement, The dele- 
gation from Essex ! The Democrats from New Hampshire ! 
The Whigs of Maine ! The young patriot feels himself stronger 6 
than before by a new thousand of eyes and arms. In like manner 
the reformers summon conventions, and vote and resolve in multi- 
tude. Not so, O friends ! will the god deign to enter and inhabit 
you, but by a method precisely the reverse. It is only as a man 
puts off all foreign support and stands alone that I see him to l'Q 
be strong and to prevail. He is weaker by every recruit to his 
banner. Is not a man better than a town ? Ask nothing of men, 
and in the endless mutation, thou only hrm column must presently 
appear the upholder of all that surrounds thee. He who knows 
that power is inborn, that he is weak because he has looked for 16 
good out of him and elsewhere, and so perceiving, throws himself 
unhesitatingly on his thought, instantly rights himself, stands in 
the erect position, commands his limbs, works miracles; just as 
a man who stands on his feet is stronger than a man who stands 
on his head. 2 

So use all that is called Fortune. Most men gamble with 
her, and gain all and lose all, as her wheel rolls. But do thou 
leave as unawful these winnings, and deal with Cause and Effect, 
the chancellors of God. In the Will work and acquire, and thou 
hast chained the wheel of Chance and shalt sit hereafter out of 2 5 
fear from her rotations. A political victory, a rise of rents, the 
recovery of your sick, or the return of your absent friend, or 
some other favorable event raises your spirits and you think 
good days are preparing for you. Do not believe it. Nothing 
can bring you peace but yourself. Nothing can bring you peace 30 
but the triumph of principles. 



170 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

HENRY DAVID THOREAU 

Born in Concord, Mass., 1817; died there, 1862 

SOLITUDE 

From Walden 

This is a delicious evening, when the whole body is one sense 
and imbibes delight through every pore. I go and come with a 
strange liberty in Nature, a part of herself. As I walk along 
the stony shore to the pond in my shirt-sleeves, though it is cool 
5 as well as cloudy and windy and I see nothing special to attract 
me, all the elements are unusually congenial to me. The bull- 
frogs trump to usher in the night, and the note of the whippoor- 
will is borne on the rippling wind from over the water. Sympathy 
with the fluttering alder and poplar leaves almost takes away my 

!0 breath; yet, like the lake, my serenity is rippled but not ruffled. 
These small waves raised by the evening wind are as remote 
from storm as the smooth reflecting surface. Though it is now 
dark, the wind still blows and roars in the wood, the waves still 
dash, and some creatures lull the rest with their notes. The 

15 repose is never complete. The wildest animals do not repose, 
but seek their prey now; the fox, and skunk, and rabbit now 
roam the fields and woods without fear. They are Nature's 
watchmen, — links which connect the days of animated life. 

When I return to my house I find that visitors have been 

2o there and left their cards, either a bunch of flowers, or a wreath 
of evergreen, or a name in pencil on a yellow walnut leaf or a 
chip. They who come rarely to the woods take some little piece 
of the forest into their hands to play with by the way, which they 
leave, either intentionally or accidentally. One has peeled a 

2 5 willow wand, woven it into a ring, and dropped it on my table. 
I could always tell if visitors had called in my absence, either by 
the bended twigs or grass, or the print of their shoes, and 
generally of what sex or age or quality they were by some slight 
trace left, as a flower dropped, or a bunch of grass plucked and 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 171 

thrown away, even as far off as the railroad, half a mile distant, 
or by the lingering odor of a cigar or pipe. Nay, I was frequently 
notified of the passage of a traveler along the highway sixty rods 
off by the scent of his pipe. 

There is commonly sufficient space about us. Our horizon 5 
is never quite at our elbows. The thick wood is not just at our 
door, nor the pond, but somewhat is always clearing, familiar 
and worn by us, appropriated and fenced in some way and 
reclaimed from Nature. For what reason have I this vast range 
and circuit, some square miles of unfrequented forest, for my 1° 
privacy, abandoned to me by men? My nearest neighbor is a 
mile distant, and no house is visible from any place but the 
hill-tops within half a mile of my own. I have my horizon 
bounded by woods all to myself ; a distant view of the railroad 
where it touches the pond on the one hand, and of the fence 15 
which skirts the woodland road on the other. But for the most 
part it is as solitary where I live as on the prairies. It is as 
much Asia or Africa as New England. I have, as it were, my 
own sun and moon and stars, and a little world all to myself. 
At night there was never a traveler passed my house, or knocked 2 
at my door, more than if I were the first or last man ; unless it 
were in the spring, when at long intervals some came from the 
village to fish for pouts, — they plainly fished much more in the 
Walden Pond of their own natures and baited their hooks with 
darkness, — but they soon retreated, usually with light baskets, 2 5 
and left "the world to darkness and to me," and the black 
kernel of the night was never profaned by any human neighbor- 
hood. I believe that men are generally still a little afraid of 
the dark, though the witches are all hung and Christianity and 
candles have been introduced. 30 

Yet I experienced sometimes that the most sweet and tender, 
the most innocent and encouraging society may be found in any 
natural object, even for the poor misanthrope and most melan- 
choly man. There can be no very black melancholy to him who 



172 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

lives in the midst of Nature and has his senses still. There was 
never yet such a storm but it was yEolian music to a healthy and 
innocent ear. Nothing can rightly compel a simple and brave 
man to a vulgar sadness. While I enjoy the friendship of the 
5 seasons I trust that nothing can make life a burden to me. The 
gentle rain which waters my beans and keeps me in the house 
to-day is not drear and melancholy, but good for me, too. 
Though it prevents my hoeing them, it is far more worth than 
my hoeing. If it should continue so long as to cause the seeds 
1 to rot in the ground and destroy the potatoes in the lowlands, it 
would still be good for the grass on the uplands, and, being good 
for the grass, it would be good for me. Sometimes, when I 
compare myself with other men, it seems as if I were more 
favored by the gods than they, beyond any deserts that I am 

1 5 conscious of ; as if I had a warrant and surety at their hands 

which my fellows have not, and were especially guided and 
guarded. I do not flatter myself, but if it be possible they flatter 
me. I have never felt lonesome, or in the least oppressed by a 
sense of solitude but once, and that was a few weeks after I 

2 o came to the woods, when, for an hour, I doubted if the near 

neighborhood of man was not essential to a serene and healthy 
life. To be alone was something unpleasant. But I was at the 
same time conscious of a slight insanity in my mood, and seemed 
to foresee my recovery. In the midst of a gentle rain while these 

2 5 thoughts prevailed, I was suddenly sensible of such sweet and 

beneficent society in Nature, in the very patering of the drops 
and in every sound and sight around my house, an infinite and 
unaccountable friendliness all at once like an atmosphere sustain- 
ing me, as made the fancied advantages of human neighborhood 

3 insignificant, and I have never thought of them since. Every 

little pine needle expanded and swelled with sympathy and 
befriended me. I was so distinctly made aware of the presence 
of something kindred to me, even in scenes which we are accus- 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 173 

tomed to call wild and dreary, and also that the nearest of blood 
to me and humanest was not a person nor a villager, that T 
thought no place could ever be strange to me again. 

Some of my pleasantest hours were during the long rainstorms 
in the spring or fall, which confined me to the house for the 5 
afternoon as well as the forenoon, soothed by their ceaseless 
roar and pelting; when an early twilight ushered in a long 
evening in which many thoughts had time to take root and unfold 
themselves. In those driving northeast rains which tried the 
village houses so, when the maids stood ready with mop and pail 1 
in front entries to keep the deluge out, I sat behind my door in 
my little house, which was all entry, and thoroughly enjoyed its 
protection. In one heavy thunder-shower the lightning struck 
a large pitch-pine across the pond, making a very conspicuous 
and perfectly regular spiral groove from top to bottom, an inch 1 5 
or more deep, and four or five inches wide, as you would groove 
a walking-stick. I passed it again the other day and was struck 
with awe on looking up and beholding that mark, now more 
distinct than ever, where a terrific and resistless bolt came down 
out of the harmless sky eight years ago. Men frequently say 2 
to me, "I should think you would feel lonesome down there, and 
want to be nearer to folks, rainy and snowy days and nights 
especially." I am tempted to reply to such,— This whole earth 
which we inhabit is but a point in space. How far apart, think 
you, dwell the two most distant inhabitants of yonder star, the 2 ~> 
breadth of whose disk cannot be appreciated by our instruments ? 
Why should I feel lonely? Is not our planet in the Milky Way? 
This which you put seems to me not to be the most important 
question. What sort of space is that which separates a man 
from his fellows and makes him solitary? I have found that 30 
no exertion of the legs can bring two minds much nearer to one 
another. What do we want most to dwell near to? Not to 
many men surely, the depot, the post-office, the bar-room, the 
meeting-house, the schoolhouse, the grocery, Beacon Hill, or the 



174 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Five Points, where men most congregate, but to the perennial 
source of our life, whence in all our experience we have found 
that to issue, as the willow stands near the water and sends out 
its roots in that direction. This will vary with different natures, 
5 but this is the place where a wise man will dig his cellar. 

5|C 5JC J|C JjC 5jC 5j» 5jC 

I find it wholesome to be alone the greater part of the time. 
To be in company, even with the best, is soon wearisome and 
dissipating. I love to be alone. I never found the companion 

10 that was so companionable as solitude. We are, for the most 
part, more lonely when we go abroad among men than when 
we stay in our chambers. A man thinking or working is always 
alone, let him be where he will. Solitude is not measured by 
the miles of space that intervene between a man and his fellows. 

1 5 The really diligent student in one of the crowded hives of Cam- 
bridge College is as solitary as a dervish in the desert. The 
farmer can work alone in the field or the woods all day, hoeing 
or chopping, and not feel lonesome, because he is employed ; but 
when he comes home at night he cannot sit down in a room 

2 alone, at the mercy of his thoughts, but must be where he can 
"see the folks" and recreate, and, as he thinks, remunerate himself 
for his day's solitude; and hence he wonders how the student 
can sit alone in the house all night and most of the day without 
ennui and "the blues" ; but he does not realize that the student, 

2 5 though in the house, is still at work in his field, and chopping 

in his woods, as the farmer in his, and in turn seeks the same 
recreation and society that the latter does, though it may be a 
more condensed form of it. 

Society is commonly too cheap. We meet at very short 

3 intervals, not having had time to acquire any new value for each 

other. We meet at meals three times a day and give each other 
a new taste of that old musty cheese that we are. We have had 
to agree on a certain set of rules, called etiquette and politeness, 
to make this frequent meeting tolerable and that we need not come 






THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 175 

to open war. We meet at the post-office, and at the sociable, 
and about the fireside every night ; we live thick and are in each 
other's way, and stumble over one another, and I think that we 
thus lose some respect for one another. Certainly less frequency 
would suffice for all important and hearty communications. Con- 5 
sider the girls in a factory, — never alone, hardly in their dreams. 
It would be better if there were but one inhabitant to a square 
mile, as where I live. The value of a man is not in his skin, 
that we should touch him. 

I have heard of a man lost in the woods and dying of famine 10 
and exhaustion at the foot of a tree, whose loneliness was relieved 
by the grotesque visions with which, owing to bodily weakness, 
his diseased imagination surrounded him, and which he believed 
to be real. So also, owing to bodily and mental health and 
strength, we may be continually cheered by a like but more normal 1 5 
and natural society, and come to know that we are never alone. 

I have a great deal of company in my house, especially in 
the morning, when nobody calls. Let me suggest a few com- 
parisons, that some one may convey an idea of my situation. 
I am no more lonely than the loon in the pond that laughs so 20 
loud, or than Walden Pond itself. What company has that 
lonely lake, I pray ? And yet it has not the blue devils, but the 
blue angels in it, in the azure tint of its waters. The sun is 
alone, except in thick weather, when there sometimes appear to 
be two, but one is a mock sun. God is alone, — but the devil, he 25 
is far from being alone ; he sees a great deal of company ; he is 
legion. I am no more lonely than a single mullein or dandelion 
in a pasture, or a bean leaf, or sorrel, or a horse-fly, or a 
humble-bee. I am no more lonely than the Mill Brook, or a 
weathercock, or the north star, or the south wind, or an April 30 
shower, or a January thaw, or the first spider in a new house. 



176 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 

Born in Salem, Mass., 1804; died in Plymouth, N. H., 1864 

THE GREAT STONE FAoE 

One afternoon, when the sun was going down, a mother and 

her little boy sat at the door of their cottage, talking about the 

Great Stone Face. They had but to lift their eyes, and there it 

was plainly to be seen, though miles away, with the sunshine 

b brightening all its features. 

And what was the Great Stone Face? 

Embosomed amongst a family of lofty mountains, there was 

a valley so spacious that it contained many thousand inhabitants. 

Some of these good people dwelt in log huts, with the black forest 

*0 all around them, on the steep and difficult hillsides. Others had 

their homes in comfortable farm houses, and cultivated the rich 

soil on the gentle slopes or level surfaces of the valley. Others, 

again, were congregated into populous villages, where some wild, 

highland rivulet, tumbling down from its birthplace in the upper 

l*> mountain region, had been caught and tamed by human cunning 

and compelled to turn the machinery of cotton factories. The 

inhabitants of this valley, in short, were numerous, and of many 

modes of life. But all of them, grown people and children, had 

a kind of familiarity with the Great Stone Face, although some 

2 possessed the gift of distinguishing this grand natural phenomenon 

more perfectly than many of their neighbors. 

The Great Stone Face, then, was a work of Nature in her 
mood of majestic playfulness, formed on the perpendicular side 
of the mountain by some immense rocks, which had been thrown 
2 5 together in such a position as, when viewed at a proper distance, 
precisely to resemble the features of the human countenance. It 
seemed as if an enormous giant, or a Titan, had sculptured his 
own likeness on the precipice. There was the broad arch of the 
forehead, a hundred feet in height ; the nose, with its long bridge; 
30 and the vast lips, which, if they could have spoken, would have 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 177 

rolled their thunder accents from one end of the valley to the 
other. True it is, that if the spectator approached too near, he 
lost the outline of the gigantic visage, and could discern only a 
heap of ponderous and gigantic rocks, piled in chaotic ruin one 
upon another. Retracing his steps, however, the wondrous 5 
features would again be seen ; and the farther he withdrew from 
them, the more like a human face, with all its original divinity 
intact, did they appear ; until, as it grew dim in the distance, with 
the clouds and glorified vapor of the mountains clustering about 
it, the Great Stone Face seemed positively to be alive. 10 

It was a happy lot for children to grow up to manhood or 
womanhood with the Great Stone Face before their eyes, for all 
the features were noble, and the expression was at once grand and 
sweet, as if it were the glow of a vast, warm heart, that embraced 
all mankind in its affections, and had room for more. It was IB 
an education only to look at it. According to the belief of many 
people, the valley owed much of its fertility to this benign aspect 
that was continually beaming over it, illuminating the clouds, and 
infusing its tenderness into the sunshine. 

As we began with saying, a mother and her little boy sat at 2 
their cottage-door, gazing at the Great Stone Face, and talking 
about it. The child's name was Ernest. 

"Mother," said he, while the Titanic visage smiled on him, 
"I wish that it could speak, for it looks so very kindly that its 
voice must needs be pleasant. If I were to see a man with such 25 
a face, I should love him dearly." 

"If an old prophecy should come to pass," answered his 
mother, "we may see a man, some time or other, with exactly 
such a face as that." 

"What prophecy do you mean, dear mother?" eagerly inquired 30 
Ernest. "Pray tell me all about it!" 

So his mother told him a story that her own mother had told 
to her, when she herself was younger than little Ernest; a story, 
not of things that were past, but of what was yet to come; a 



178 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

story, nevertheless, so very old that even the Indians, who 
formerly inhabited this valley, had heard it from their fore- 
fathers, to whom, as they affirmed, it had been murmured by the 
mountain streams, and whispered by the wind among the tree- 
5 tops. The purport was that, at some future day, a child should 
be born hereabouts, who was destined to become the greatest and 
noblest personage of his time, and whose countenance, in man- 
hood, should bear an exact resemblance to the Great Stone Face. 
Not a few old-fashioned people, and young ones likewise, in 

10 the ardor of their hopes, still cherished an enduring faith in this 
old prophecy. But others, who had seen more of the world, 
had watched and waited till they were weary, and had beheld 
no man with such a face, nor any man that proved to be much 
greater or nobler than his neighbors, concluded it to be nothing 

15 but an idle tale. At all events, the great man of the prophecy 
had not yet appeared. 

"O mother, dear mother!" cried Ernest, clapping his hands 
above his head, "I do hope that I shall live to see him !" 

His mother was an affectionate and thoughtful woman, and 

2 felt that it was wisest not to discourage the generous hopes of 
her little boy. So she only said to him, "Perhaps you may." 

And Ernest never forgot the story that his mother told him. 
It was always in his mind, whenever he looked upon the Great 
Stone Face. He spent his childhood in the log-cottage where 

2 5 he was born, and was dutiful to his mother, and helpful to her 
in many things, assisting her much with his little hands, and 
more with his loving heart. In this manner, from a happy yet 
often pensive child, he grew up to be a mild, quiet, unobtrusive 
boy, and sunbrowned with labor in the fields, but with more 

30 intelligence brightening his aspect than is seen in many lads who 
have been taught at famous schools. Yet Ernest had had no 
teacher, save only that the Great Stone Face became one to 
him. When the toil of the day was over, he would gaze at it 
for hours, until he began to imagine that those vast features 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 179 

recognized him, and gave him a smile of kindness and encourage- 
ment, responsive to his own look of veneration. We must not 
take upon us to affirm that this was a mistake, although the Face 
may have looked no more kindly at Ernest than at all the world 
5 besides. But the secret was that the boy's tender and confiding 
simplicity discerned what other people could not see; and thus 
the love, which was meant for all, became his peculiar portion. 
About this time there went a rumor throughout the valley 
that the great man, foretold from ages long ago, who was to bear 

10 a resemblance to the Great Stone Face, had appeared at last. 
It seems that, many years before, a young man had migrated 
from the valley and settled at a distant seaport, where, after 
getting together a little money, he had set up as a shopkeeper. 
His name — but I could never learn whether it was his real one, 

15 or a nickname that had grown out of his habits and success in 
life — was Gathergold. Being shrewd and active, and endowed 
by Providence with that inscrutable faculty which develops itself 
in what the world calls luck, he became an exceedingly rich 
merchant, and owner of a whole fleet of bulky-bottomed ships. 

20 All the countries of the globe appeared to join hands for the 
mere purpose of adding heap after heap to the mountainous 
accumulation of this one man's wealth. The cold regions of the 
north, almost within the gloom and shadow of the Arctic Circle, 
sent him their tribute in the shape of furs ; hot Africa sifted for 

25 him the golden sands of her rivers, and gathered up the ivory 
tusks of her great elephants out of the forest; the East came 
bringing him the rich shawls, and spices, and teas, -and the 
effulgence of diamonds, and the gleaming purity of large pearls. 
The ocean, not to be behindhand with the earth, yielded up her 

30 mighty whales, that Mr. Gathergold might sell their oil, and 
make a profit on it. Be the original commodity what it might, 
it was gold within his grasp. It might be said of him, as of 
Midas in the fable, that whatever he touched with his finger 
immediately glistened, and grew yellow, and was changed at 



180 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

once into sterling metal, or, which suited him still better, into 
piles of coin. And, when Mr. Gathergold had become so very 
rich that it would have taken him a hundred years only to count 
his wealth, he bethought himself of his native valley, and resolved 
to go back thither, and end his days where he was born. With 5 
this purpose in view, he sent a skilful architect to build him such 
a palace as should be fit for a man of his vast wealth to live in. 
As I have said above, it had already been rumored in the 
valley that Mr. Gathergold had turned out to be the prophetic 
personage so long and vainly looked for, and that his visage was 10 
the perfect and undeniable similitude of the Great Stone Face. 
People were the more ready to believe that this must needs be 
the fact, when they beheld the splendid edifice that rose, as if by 
enchantment, on the site of his father's old weather-beaten farm- 
house. The exterior was of marble, so dazzlingly white that it 15 
seemed as though the whole structure might melt away in the 
sunshine, like those humbler ones which Mr. Gathergold, in his 
younger playdays, before his fingers were gifted with the touch 
of transmutation, had been accustomed to build of snow. It had 
a richly ornamented portico, supported by tall pillars, beneath 20 
which was a lofty door, studded with silver knobs, and made of 
a kind of variegated wood that had been brought from beyond 
the sea. The windows, from the floor to the ceiling of each 
stately apartment, were composed, respectively, of but one enor- 
mous pane of glass, so transparently pure that it was said to be 25 
a finer medium than even the vacant atmosphere. Hardly 
anybody had been permitted to see the interior of this palace; 
but it was reported, and with good semblance of truth, to be far 
more gorgeous than the outside, insomuch that whatever was 
iron or brass in other houses was silver or gold in this; and 30 
Mr. Gathergold's bedchamber, especially, made such a glittering 
appearance that no ordinary man would have been able to close 
his eyes there. But, on the other hand, Mr. Gathergold was now 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 181 

so inured to wealth that perhaps he could not have closed his 
eyes unless where the gleam of it was certain to find its way 
beneath his eyelids. 

In due time, the mansion was finished ; next came the uphol- 
5 sterers with magnificent furniture ; then, a whole troop of black 
and white servants, the harbingers of Mr. Gathergold, who, in 
his own majestic person, was expected to arrive at sunset. Our 
friend Ernest, meanwhile, had been deeply stirred by the idea 
that the great man, the noble man, the man of prophecy, after so 

10 many ages of delay, was at length to be made manifest to his 
native valley. He knew, boy as he was, that there were a thou- 
sand ways in which Mr. Gathergold, with his vast wealth, might 
transform himself into an angel of beneficence, and assume a 
control over human affairs as wide and benignant as the smile 

15 of the Great Stone Face. Full of faith and hope, Ernest doubted 
not that what the people said was true, and that now he was to 
behold the living likeness of those wondrous features on the 
mountain-side. While the boy was still gazing up the valley, 
and fancying, as he always did, that the Great Stone Face 

20 returned his gaze and looked kindly at him, the rumbling of 
wheels was heard, approaching swiftly along the winding road. 
"Here he comes !" cried a group of people who were assem- 
bled to witness the arrival. "Here comes the great Mr. Gather- 
gold r 

26 A carriage, drawn by four horses, dashed round the turn of 

the road. Within it, thrust partly out of the window, appeared 
the physiognomy of a little old man, with a skin as yellow as if 
his own Midas-hand had transmuted it. He had a low forehead, 
small, sharp eyes, puckered about with innumerable wrinkles, and 

30 very thin lips, which he made still thinner by pressing them 
forcibly together. 

"The very image of the Great Stone Face!" shouted the 
people. "Sure enough, the old prophecy is true; and here we 
have the great man come, at last !" 



182 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

And, what greatly perplexed Ernest, they seemed actually 
to believe that here was the likeness which they spoke of. By 
the roadside there chanced to be an old beggar-woman and two 
little beggar-children, stragglers from some far-off region, who, 
5 as the carriage rolled onward, held out their hands and lifted 
up their doleful voices, most piteously beseeching charity. A 
yellow claw — the very same that had clawed together so much 
wealth — poked itself out of the coach-window, and dropt some 
copper coins upon the ground; so that, though the great man's 

10 name seems to have been Gathergold, he might just as suitably 
have been nicknamed Scattercopper. Still, nevertheless, with 
an earnest shout, and evidently with as much good faith as ever, 
the people bellowed, — 

"He is the very image of the Great Stone Face !" 

15 But Ernest turned sadly from the wrinkled shrewdness of 

that sordid visage, and gazed up the valley, where, amid a gath- 
ering mist, gilded by the last sunbeams, he could still distinguish 
those glorious features which had impressed themselves into his 
soul. Their aspect cheered him. What did the benign lips seem 

2 to say? 

"He will come ! Fear not, Ernest ; the "man will come !" 
The years went on, and Ernest ceased to be a boy. He had 
grown to be a young man now. He attracted little notice from 
the other inhabitants of the valley ; for they saw nothing remark- 

2 5 able in his way of life, save that, when the labor of the day was 
over, he still loved to go apart and gaze and meditate upon the 
Great Stone Face. According to their idea of the matter, it 
was a folly, indeed, but pardonable, inasmuch as Ernest was 
industrious, kind, and neighborly, and neglected no duty for the 

30 sake of indulging this idle habit. They knew not that the Great 
Stone Face had become a teacher to him, and that the sentiment 
which was expressed in it would enlarge the young man's heart, 
and fill it with wider and deeper sympathies than other hearts. 
They knew not that thence would come a better wisdom than 






10 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 183 

could be learned from books, and a better life than could be 
moulded on the defaced example of other human lives. Neither 
did Ernest know that the thoughts and affections which came to 
him so naturally, in the fields and at the fireside, and wherever 
he communed with himself, were of a higher tone than those 
which all men shared with him. A simple soul,— simple as when 
his mother first taught him the old prophecy,— he beheld the 
marvelous features beaming adown the valley, and still wondered 
that their human counterpart was so long in making his appear- 
ance. 

By this time poor Mr. Gathergold was dead and buried ; and 
the oddest part of the matter was, that his wealth, which was 
the body and spirit of his existence, had disappeared before his 
death, leaving nothing of him but a living skeleton, covered over 
with a wrinkled, yellow skin. Since the melting away of his 15 
gold, it had been very generally conceded that there was no such 
striking resemblance, after all, betwixt the ignoble features of 
the ruined merchant and that majestic face upon the mountain- 
side. So the people ceased to honor him during his lifetime, and 
quietly consigned him to forgetfulness after his decease. Once 20 
in a while, it is true, his memory was brought up in connection 
with the magnificent palace which he had built, and which had 
long ago been turned into a hotel for the accommodation of 
strangers, multitudes of whom came, every summer, to visit that 
famous natural curiosity, the Great Stone Face. Thus, Mr. 2 5 
Gathergold being discredited and thrown into the shade, the man 
of prophecy was yet to come. 

It so happened that a native-born son of the valley, many years 
before, had enlisted as a soldier, and, after a great deal of hard 
fighting, had now become an illustrious commander. Whatever 30 
he may be called in history, he was known in camps and on the 
battlefield under the nickname of Old Blood-and-Thunder. This 
war-worn veteran, being now infirm with age and wounds, and 
weary of the turmoil of a military life, and of the roll of the 



184 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

drum and the clangor of the trumpet, that had so long been 
ringing in his ears, had lately signified a purpose of returning 
to his native valley, hoping to find repose where he remembered 
to have left it. The inhabitants, his old neighbors and their 
5 grown-up children, were resolved to welcome the renowned 
warrior with- a salute of cannon and a public dinner ; and all the 
more enthusiastically, it being affirmed that now, at last, the 
likeness of the Great Stone Face had actually appeared. An 
aid-de-camp of Old Blood-and-Thunder, traveling through the 

10 valley, was said to have been struck with the resemblance. More- 
over, the schoolmates and early acquaintances of the general were 
ready to testify, on oath, that, to the best of their recollection, 
the aforesaid general had been exceedingly like the majestic 
image, even when a boy, only that the idea had never occurred 

15 to them at that period. Great, therefore, was the excitement 
throughout the valley; and many people, who had never once 
thought of glancing at the Great Stone Face for years before, 
now spent their time in gazing at it for the sake of knowing 
exactly how General Blood-and-Thunder looked. 

20 On the day of the great festival, Ernest, with all the other 

people of the valley, left their work, and proceeded to the spot 
where the sylvan banquet was prepared. As he approached, the 
loud voice of the Rev. Dr. Battleblast was heard, beseeching a 
blessing on the good things set before them, and on the distin- 

25 guished friend of peace in whose honor they were assembled. 
The tables were arranged in a cleared space of the woods, shut 
in by the surrounding trees, except where a vista opened east- 
ward, and afforded a distant view of the Great Stone Face. 
Over the general's chair, which was a relic from the home of 

30 Washington, there was an arch of verdant boughs, with the laurel 
profusely intermixed, and surmounted by his country's banner, 
beneath which he had won his victories. Our friend Ernest 
raised himself on his tiptoes, in hopes to get a glimpse of the 
celebrated guest; but there was a mighty crowd about the tables 
anxious to hear the toasts and speeches, and to catch any word 









THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 185 

that might fall from the general in reply ; and a volunteer com- 
pany, doing duty as a guard, pricked ruthlessly with their 
bayonets at any particularly quiet person among the throng. _ So 
Ernest, being of an unobtrusive character, was thrust quite into 
the background, where he could see no more of Old Blood-and- 5 
Thunder's physiognomy than if it had been still blazing on the 
battlefield. To console himself, he turned toward the Great 
Stone Face, which, like a faithful and long-remembered friend, 
looked back and smiled upon him through the vista of the forest. 
Meantime, however, he could overhear the remarks of various 10 
individuals, who were comparing the features of the hero with 
the face on the distant mountain-side. 

" 'Tis the same face, to a hair !" cried one man, cutting a 
caper for joy, 

"Wonderfully like, that's a fact!" responded another. ^ 15 

"Like ! why, I call it Old Blood-and-Thunder himself, in a 
monstrous looking-glass!" cried a third. "And why not? ^ He's 
the greatest man of this or any other age, beyond a doubt." 

And then all three of the speakers gave a great shout, which 
communicated electricity to the crowd, and called forth a roar 20 
from a thousand voices, that went reverberating for miles among 
the mountains, until you might have supposed that the Great 
Stone Face had poured its thunder-breath into the cry. All 
these comments, and this vast enthusiasm served the more to 
interest our friend; nor did he think of questioning that now, 25 
at length, the mountain-visage had found its human counterpart. 
It is true, Ernest had imagined that this long-looked-for person- 
age would appear in the character of a man of peace, uttering 
wisdom, and doing good, and making people happy. But, taking 
an habitual breadth of view, with all his simplicity, he contended 30 
that Providence should choose its own method of blessing man- 
kind, and could conceive that this great end might be effected 
even by a warrior and a bloody sword, should inscrutable wisdom 
see fit to order matters so. 



186 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

"The general! the general!" was now the cry. "Hush! 
silence ! Old Blood-and-Thunder's going to make a speech." 

Even so; for, the cloth being removed, the general's health 
had been drunk amid shouts of applause, and he now stood upon 
6 his feet to thank the company. Ernest saw him. There he 
was, over the shoulders of the crowd, from the two glittering 
epaulets and embroidered collar upward, beneath the arch of 
green boughs with intertwined laurel, and the banner drooping 
as if to shade his brow! And there, too, visible in the same 

10 glance, through the vista of the forest, appeared the Great Stone 
Face ! And was there, indeed, such a resemblance as the crowd 
had testified? Alas, Ernest could not recognize it! He beheld 
a war-worn and weather-beaten countenance, full of energy, and 
expressive of an iron will ; but the gentle wisdom, the deep, broad, 

15 tender sympathies, were altogether wanting in Old Blood-and- 
Thunder's visage ; and even if the Great Stone Face had assumed 
his look of stern command, the milder traits would still have 
tempered it. 

"This is not the man of prophecy," sighed Ernest, to himself, 

20 as he made his way out of the throng. "And must the world 
wait longer yet ?" 

The mists had congregated about the distant mountain-side, 
and there were seen the grand and awful features of the Great 
Stone Face, awful but benignant, as if a mighty angel were sitting 

25 among the hills, and enrobing himself in a cloud-vesture of gold 
and purple. As he looked, Ernest could hardly believe but that 
a smile beamed over the whole visage, with a radiance still 
brightening, although without motion of the lips. It was prob- 
ably the effect of the . western sunshine, melting through the 

30 thinly diffused vapors that had swept between him and the object 
that he gazed at. But — as it always did — the aspect of his 
marvelous friend made Ernest as hopeful as if he had never 
hoped in vain. 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 187 

"Fear not, Ernest," said his heart, even as if the Great Face 
were whispering to him, — "fear not, Ernest; he will come." 

More years sped swiftly and tranquilly away. Ernest still 
dwelt in his native valley, and was now a man of middle age. 
By imperceptible degrees, he had become known among the 5 
people. Now, as heretofore, he labored for his bread, and was 
the same simple-hearted man that he had always been. But he 
had thought and felt so much, he had given so many of the best 
hours of his Hfe to unworldly hopes for some great good to man- 
kind, that it seemed as though he had been talking with the 10 
angels, and had imbibed a portion of their wisdom unawares. It 
was visible in the calm and well-considered beneficence of his 
daily life, the quiet stream of which had made a wide green 
margin all along its course. Not a day passed by that the world 
was not the better because this man, humble as he was, had 15 
lived. He never stepped aside from his own path, yet would 
always reach a blessing to his neighbor. Almost involuntarily, 
too, he had become a preacher. The pure and high simplicity of 
his thought, which, as one of its manifestations, took shape in 
the good deeds that dropped silently from his hand, flowed 20 
also forth in speech. He uttered truths that wrought upon and 
moulded the lives of those who heard him. His auditors, it 
may be, never suspected that Ernest, their own neighbor and 
familiar friend, was more than an ordinary man ; least of all did 
Ernest himself suspect it; but, inevitably as the murmur of a 25 
rivulet, came thoughts out of his mouth that no other human lips 
had spoken. 

When the people's minds had had a little time to cool, they 
were ready enough to acknowledge their mistake in imagining 
a similarity between General Blood-and-Thunder's truculent 30 
physiognomy and the benign visage on the mountain-side. But 
now, again, there were reports and many paragraphs in the 
newspapers, affirming that the likeness of the Great Stone Face 
had appeared upon the broad shoulders of a certain eminent 



188 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

statesman. He, like Mr. Gathergold and Old Blood-and- 
Thunder, was a native of the valley, but had left it in his early- 
days, and taken up the trades of law and politics. Instead of 
the rich man's wealth and the warrior's sword, he had but a 
5 tongue, and it was mightier than both together. So wonder- 
fully eloquent was he, that whatever he might choose to say, 
his auditors had no choice but to believe him ; wrong looked like 
right, and right like wrong; for when it pleased him, he could 
make a kind of illuminated fog with his mere breath, and obscure 

10 the natural daylight with it. His tongue, indeed, was a magic 
instrument: sometimes it rumbled like the thunder; sometimes 
it warbled like the sweetest music. It was the blast of war, — 
the song of peace; and it seemed to have a heart in it, when 
there was no such matter. In good truth, he was a wondrous 

1 5 man ; and when his tongue had acquired him all other imaginable 
success, — when it had been heard in halls of state, and in the 
courts of princes and potentates, — after it had made him known 
all over the world, even as a voice crying from shore to shore, — 
it finally persuaded his countrymen to select him for the Pres- 

2o idency. Before this time, — indeed, as soon as he began to grow 
celebrated, — his admirers had found out the resemblance between 
him and the Great Stone Face; and so* much were they struck 
by it, that throughout the country this distinguished gentleman 
was known by the name of Old Stony Phiz. The phrase was 

25 considered as giving a highly favorable aspect to his political 
prospect; for, as is likewise the case with the Popedom, nobody 
ever becomes President without taking a name other than his own. 
While his friends were doing their best to make him Pres- 
ident, Old Stony Phiz,, as he was called, set out on a visit to 

30 the valley where he was born. Of course, he had no other 
object than to shake hands with his fellow-citizens, and neither 
. thought nor cared about any effect which his progress through 
the country might have upon the election. Magnificent prepara- 
tions were made to receive the illustrious statesman ; a cavalcade 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 189 

of horsemen set forth to meet him at the boundary line of the 
State, and all the people left their business and gathered along 
the wayside to see him pass. Among these was Ernest. Though 
more than once disappointed, as we have seen, he had such a 
hopeful and confiding nature, that he was always ready to believe 5 
in whatever seemed beautiful and good. He kept his heart con- 
tinually open, and thus was sure to catch the blessing from on 
high, when it should come. So now again, as buoyantly as ever, 
he went forth to behold the likeness of the Great Stone Face. 

The cavalcade came prancing along the road, with a great 10 
clattering of hoofs and a mighty cloud of dust, which rose up so 
dense and high that the visage of the mountain-side was com- 
pletely hidden from Ernest's eyes. All the great men of the 
neighborhood were there on horseback: militia officers, in 
uniform; the member of Congress; the sheriff of the county; 15 
the editors of newspapers ; and many a farmer, too, had mounted 
his patient steed, with his Sunday coat upon his back. It really 
was a very brilliant spectacle, especially as there were numerous 
banners flaunting over the cavalcade, on some of which were 
gorgeous portraits of the illustrious statesman and the Great 20 
Stone Face, smiling familiarly at one another, like two brothers. 
If the pictures were to be trusted, the mutual resemblance, it 
must be confessed, was marvelous. We must not forget to 
mention that there was a band of music, which made the echoes 
of the mountains ring and reverberate with the loud triumph of 2 5 
its strains; so that: airy and soul-thrilling melodies broke out 
among all the heights and hollows, as if every nook of his native 
valley had found a voice, to welcome the distinguished guest. 
But the grandest effect was when the far-off mountain precipice 
flung back the music; for then the Great Stone Face itself 30 
seemed to be swelling the triumphant chorus, in acknowledgment 
that, at length, the man of prophecy was come. 

All this while the people were throwing up their hats and 
shouting, with enthusiasm so contagious that the heart of Ernest 



190 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

kindled up, and he likewise threw up his hat, and shouted, as 
loudly as the loudest, "Huzza for the great man! Huzza for 
Old Stony Phiz !" But as yet he had not seen him. 

"Here he is, now !" cried those who stood near Ernest. 
5 "There ! There ! Look at Old Stony Phiz and then at the Old 
Man of the Mountain, and see if they are not as like as two 
twin-brothers !" 

In the midst of all this gallant array came an open barouche, 
drawn by four white horses; and in the barouche, with his 
10 massive head uncovered, sat the illustrious statesman, Old Stony 
Phiz himself. 

"Confess it," said one of Ernest's neighbors to him, "the 
Great Stone Face has met its match at last !" 

Now, it must be owned that, at his first glimpse of the counte- 

15 nance which was bowing and smiling from the barouche, Ernest 

did fancy that there was a resemblance between it and the old 

familiar face upon the mountain-side. The brow, with its 

massive depths and loftiness, and all the other features, indeed, 

were boldly and strongly hewn, as if in emulation of a more 

20 than heroic, of a Titanic model. But the sublimity and state- 

liness, the grand expression of a divine sympathy, that illuminated 

the mountain visige, and etherealized its ponderous granite 

substance into spirit, might here be sought in vain. Something 

had been originally left out, or had departed. And, therefore, 

25 the marvelously gifted statesman had always a weary gloom in 

the deep caverns of his eyes, as of a child that has outgrown 

its playthings, or a man of mighty faculties and little aims, 

whose life, with all its high performances, was vague and empty, 

because no high purpose had endowed it with reality. 

30 Still, Ernest's neighbor was thrusting his elbow into his side, 

and pressing him for an answer. 

"Confess ! confess ! Is not he the very picture of your Old 
Man of the Mountain ?" 

"No !" said Ernest, bluntly, "I see little or no likeness." 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 191 

"Then so much the worse for the Great Stone Face! 
answered his neighbor; and again he set up a shout for Old 
Stony Phiz. 

But Ernest turned away, melancholy, and almost despondent ; 
for this was the saddest of his disappointments, to behold a man 5 
who might have fulfilled the prophecy, and had not willed to do 
so. Meantime, the cavalcade, the banners, the music, and the 
barouches swept past him, with the vociferous crowd in the rear, 
leaving the dust to settle down, and the Great Stone Face to be 
revealed again, with the grandeur that it had worn for untold 10 
centuries. 

"Lo, here I am, Ernest!" the benign lips seemed to say. "I 
have waited longer than thou, and am not yet weary. Fear not ; 
the man will come." 

The years hurried onward, treading in their haste on one 15 
another's heels. And now they began to bring white hairs, and 
scatter them over the head of Ernest; they made reverend 
wrinkles across his forehead, and furrows in his cheeks. He 
was an aged man. But not in vain had he grown old; more 
than the white hairs on his head were the sage thoughts in his 2 
mind; his wrinkles and furrows were inscriptions that Time 
had graved, and in which he had written legends of wisdom 
that had been tested by the tenor of a life. And Ernest had 
ceased to be obscure. Unsought for, undesired, had come the 
fame which so many seek, and made him known in the great 2 5 
world, beyond the limits of the valley in which he had dwelt 
so quietly. College professors, and even the active men of cities, 
came from far to see and converse with Ernest; for the report 
had gone abroad that this simple husbandman had ideas unlike 
those of other men, not gained from books, but of a higher tone, — 3 
a tranquil and familiar majesty, as if he had been talking with 
the angels as his daily friends. Whether it were sage, states- 
man, or philanthropist, Ernest received these visitors with the 
gentle sincerity that had characterized him from boyhood, and 



192 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

spoke freely with them of whatever came uppermost, or lay 
deepest in his heart or their own. While they talked together, 
his face would kindle, unawares, and shine upon them, as with 
a mild evening light. Pensive with the fulness of such discourse, 
5 his guests took leave and went their way; and passing up the 
valley, paused to look at the Great Stone Face, imagining that 
they had seen its likeness in a human countenance, but could not 
remember where. 

While Ernest had been growing up and growing old, a boun- 

10 tiful Providence had granted a new poet to this earth. He, 
likewise, was a native of the valley, but had spent the greater 
part of his life at a distance from that romantic region, pouring 
out his sweet music amid the bustle and din of cities. Often, 
however, did the mountains which had been familiar to him in 

1 5 his childhood lift their snowy peaks into the clear atmosphere of 
his poetry. Neither was the Great Stone Face forgotten, for 
the poet had celebrated it in an ode, which was grand enough 
to have been uttered by its own majestic lips. This man of 
genius, we may say, had come down from heaven with wonderful 

2 endowments. If he sang of a mountain, the eyes of all mankind 
beheld a mightier grandeur reposing on its breast, or soaring to 
its summit, than had before been seen there. If his theme were 
a lovely lake, a celestial smile had now been thrown over it, to 
gleam forever on its surface. If it were the vast old sea, even 

2 5 the deep immensity of its dread bosom seemed to swell the 
higher, as if moved by the emotions of the song. Thus the 
world assumed another and better aspect from the hour that 
the poet blessed it with his happy eyes. The Creator had 
bestowed him, as the last best touch to his own handiwork. 

3o Creation was not finished till the poet came to interpret, and so 
complete it. 

The effect was no less high and beautiful, when his human 
brethren were the subject of his verse. The man or woman, 
sordid with the common dust of life, who crossed his daily path, 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 193 

and the little child who played in it, were glorified if he beheld 
them in his mood of poetic faith. He showed the golden links of 
the great chain that intertwined them with an angelic kindred; 
he brought out the hidden traits of a celestial birth that made 
them worthy of such kin. Some, indeed, there were who thought 5 
to show the soundness of their judgment by affirming that all 
the beauty and dignity of the natural world existed only in the 
poet's fancy. Let such men speak for themselves, who undoubt- 
edly appear to have been spawned forth by Nature with a con- 
temptuous bitterness; she having plastered them up out of her 10 
refuse stuff, after all the swine were made. As respects all 
things else, the poet's ideal was the truest truth. 

The songs of this poet found their way to Ernest. He read 
them after his customary toil, seated on the bench before his 
cottage-door, where for such a length of time he had filled his 15 
repose with thought, by gazing at the Great Stone Face. And 
now as he read stanzas that caused the soul to thrill within him, 
he lifted his eyes to the vast countenance beaming on him so 
benignantly. 

"O majestic friend," he murmured, addressing the Great 20 
Stone Face, "is not this man worthy to resemble thee?" 

The Face seemed to smile, but answered not a word. 

Now it happened that the poet, though he dwelt so far away, 
had not only heard of Ernest, but had meditated much upon his 
character, until he deemed nothing so desirable as to meet this 2 5 
man, whose untaught wisdom walked hand in hand with the 
noble simplicity of his life. One summer morning, therefore, 
he took passage by the railroad, and, in the decline of the after- 
noon, alighted from the cars at no great distance from Ernest's 
cottage. The great hotel, which had formerly been the palace 30 
of Mr. Gathergold, was close at hand, but the poet, with his 
carpet-bag on his arm, inquired at once where Ernest dwelt, and 
was resolved to be accepted as his guest. 

Approaching the door, he there found the good old man, hold- 



194 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

ing a volume in his hand, which alternately he read, and then, 
with a finger between the leaves, looked lovingly at the Great 
Stone Face. 

"Good evening," said the poet. "Can you give a traveler a 
5 night's lodging?" 

"Willingly," answered Ernest; and then he added, smiling, 
"Methinks I never saw the Great Stone Face look so hospitably 
at a stranger/' 

The poet sat down on the bench beside him, and he and Ernest 

1 ° talked together. Often had the poet held intercourse with the 
wittiest and the wisest, but never before with a man like Ernest, 
whose thoughts and feelings gushed up with such a natural 
freedom, and who made great truths so familiar by his simple 
utterance of them. Angels, as had been so often said, seemed 

15 to have wrought with him at his labor in the fields; angels 
seemed to have sat with him by the fireside; and, dwelling with 
angels as friend with friends, he had imbibed the sublimity of 
their ideas, and imbued it with the sweet and lowly charm of 
household words. So thought the poet. And Ernest, on the 

20 other hand, was moved and agitated by the living images which 
the poet flung out of his mind, and which peopled all the air 
about the cottage-door with shapes of beauty, both gay and 
pensive. The sympathies of these two men instructed them 
with a profounder sense than either could have attained alone. 

25 Their minds accorded into one strain, and made delightful music 
which neither of them could have claimed as all his own, nor 
distinguished his own share from the other's. They led one 
another, as it were, into a high pavilion of their thoughts, so 
remote, and hitherto so dim, that they had never entered it before, 

30 and so beautiful that they desired to be there always. 

As Ernest listened to the poet, he imagined that the Great 
Stone Face was bending forward to listen, too. He gazed 
earnestly into the poet's glowing eyes. 

"Who are you, my strangely gifted guest?" he said. 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 195 

The poet laid his finger on the volume that Ernest had been 
reading. 

"You have read these poems," said he. "You know me, 
then, — for I wrote them." 

Again, and still more earnestly than before, Ernest examined 5 
the poet's features : then turned toward the Great Stone Face ; 
then back, with an uncertain aspect, to his guest. But his counte- 
nance fell ; he shook his head, and sighed. 

"Wherefore are you sad?" inquired the poet. 

"Because," replied Ernest, "all through life I have awaited 10 
the fulfilment of a prophecy; and, when I lead these poems, I 
hoped that it might be fulfilled in you." 

"You hoped," answered the poet, faintly smiling, "to find in 
me the likeness of the Great Stone Face. And you are disap- 
pointed, as formerly with Mr. Gathergold, and Old Blood-and- I 5 
Thunder, and Old Stony Phiz. Yes, Ernest, it is my doom. 
You must add my name to the illustrious three, and record 
another failure of your hopes. For — in shame and sadness do I 
speak it, Ernest — I am not worthy to be typified by yonder benign 
and majestic image." 2 

"And why?" asked Ernest. He pointed to the volume. 
"Are not those thoughts divine?" 

"They have a strain of the Divinity," replied the poet. "You 
can hear in them the far-off echo of a heavenly song. But my 
life, dear Ernest, has not corresponded with my thought. I 25 
have had grand dreams, but they have been only dreams, 
because I have lived — and that, too, by my own choice — among 
poor and mean realities. Sometimes even — shall I dare to say 
it? — I lack faith in the grandeur, the beauty, and the goodness, 
which my own works are said to have made more evident in 3 
nature and in human life. Why, then, pure seeker of the good 
and true, shouldst thou hope to find me in yonder image of the 
divine?" 



196 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

The poet spoke sadly, and his eyes were dim with tears. So, 
likewise, were those of Ernest. 

At the hour of sunset, as had long been his frequent custom, 
Ernest was to discourse to an assemblage of the neighboring 
5 inhabitants in the open air. He and the poet, arm in arm, still 
talking together as they went along, proceeded to the spot. It 
was a small nook among the hills, with a gray precipice behind, 
the stern front of which was relieved by the pleasant foliage of 
many creeping plants, that made a tapestry for the naked rock, 

10 by hanging their festoons from all its rugged angles. At a small 
elevation above the ground, set in a rich framework of verdure, 
there appeared a niche, spacious enough to admit a human 
figure, with freedom for such gestures as spontaneously accom- 
pany earnest thought and genuine emotion. Into this natural 

15 pulpit Ernest ascended, and threw a look of familiar kindness 
around upon his audience. They stood, or sat, or reclined upon 
the grass, as seemed good to each, with the departing sunshine 
falling obliquely over them, and mingling its subdued cheerful- 
ness with the solemnity of a grove of ancient trees, beneath and 

20 amid the boughs of which the golden rays were constrained to 
pass. In another direction was seen the Great Stone Face, with 
the same cheer, combined with the same solemnity, in its 
benignant aspect. 

Ernest began to speak, giving to the people of what was in 

25 his heart and mind. His words had power, because they 
accorded with his thoughts; and his thoughts had reality and 
depth, because they harmonized with the life which he had always 
lived. It was not mere breath that this preacher uttered; they 
were the words of life, because a life of good deeds and holy 

30 love was melted into them. Pearls, pure and rich, had been 
dissolved into this precious draught. The poet, as he listened, 
felt that the being and character of Ernest were a nobler strain 
of poetry than he had ever written. His eyes glistening with 
tears, he gazed reverentially at the venerable man, and said 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 197 

within himself that never was there an aspect so worthy of a 
prophet and a sage as that mild, sweet, thoughtful countenance, 
with the glory of white hair diffused about it. At a distance, 
but distinctly to be seen, high up in the golden light of the setting 
sun, appeared the Great Stone Face, with hoary mists around it, 5 
like the white hairs around the brow of Ernest. Its look of 
grand beneficence seemed to embrace the world. 

At that moment, in sympathy with a thought which he was 
about to utter, the face of Ernest assumed a grandeur of expres- 
sion, so imbued with benevolence, that the poet, by an irresistible 10 
impulse, threw his arms aloft, and shouted, — 

"Behold! Behold! Ernest is himself the likeness of the 
Great Stone Face!" 

Then all the people looked, and saw that what the deep- 
sighted poet said was true. The prophecy was fulfilled. But 15 
Ernest, having finished what he had to say, took the poet's arm, 
and walked slowly homeward, still hoping that some wiser and 
better man than himself would by and 'by appear, bearing a 
resemblance to the Great Stone Face. 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
Born at Portland, Me., 1807; died at Cambridge, Mass., 1882 

A PSALM OF LIFE 
What the Heart of the Young Man Said to the Psalmist 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 2o 

Life is but an empty dream! — 
For the soul is dead that slumbers, 

And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 

And the grave is not its goal ; 2 5 

Dust thou art, to dust return est, 

Was not spoken of the soul. 



198 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 
Is our destined end or way; 

But to act, that each to-morrow 
Find us farther than to-day. 

5 Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 

And our hearts, though stout and brave, 
Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 

In the world's broad field of battle, 
10 In the bivouac of Life, 

Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! 
Be a hero in the strife ! 

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! 
Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
15 Act, — act in the living Present! 

Heart within, and God o'erhead ! 

Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime, 
And, departing, leave behind us 
2 Footprints on the sands of time ; 

Footprints, that perhaps another, 
Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 
Seeing, shall take heart again. 

2 5 Let us, then, be up and doing, 

With a heart for any fate; 
Still achieving, still pursuing, 
Learn to labor and to wait. 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 199 

THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS 

It was the schooner Hesperus, 

That sailed the wintry sea; 
And the skipper had taken his little daughter, 

To bear him company. 

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, 5 

Her cheeks like the dawn of day, 
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, 

That ope in the month of May. 

The skipper he stood beside the helm, 

His pipe was in his mouth, 10 

And he watched how the veering flaw did blow 

The smoke now West, now South. 

Then up and spake an old sailor, 

Had sailed to the Spanish Main, 
"I pray thee, put into yonder port, 1 5 

For I fear a hurricane. 

"Last night the moon had a golden ring, 

And to-night no moon we see !" 
The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, 

And a scornful laugh laughed he. 20 

Colder and colder blew the wind, 

A gale from the Northeast, 
The snow fell hissing in the brine, 

And the billows frothed like yeast. 

Down came the storm, and smote amain 2 5 

The vessel in its strength; 



200 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, 
Then leaped her cable's length. 

"Come hither! come hither! my little daughter, 
And do not tremble so ; 
5 For I can weather the roughest gale 

That ever wind did blow." 

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat 

Against the stinging blast ; 
He cut a rope from a broken spar, 
1 o And bound her to the mast. 

"Q father ! I hear the church bells ring, 

Oh, say, what may it be?" 
" 'Tis a fog bell on a rock-bound coast !" — 

And he steered for the open sea. 

1 5 "O father ! I hear the sound of guns, 

Oh, say, what may it be?" 
"Some ship in distress, that cannot live 
In such an angry sea!" 

"O father! T see the gleaming light, 

2 ° Oh, sav, what may it be ?" 

But the father answered never a word, 
A frozen corpse was he. 

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, 
With his face turned to the skies, 
2 5 The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow 

On his fixed and glassy eyes. 






THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 201 

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed 

That saved she might be ; 
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, 

On the Lake of Galilee. 

And fast through the midnight dark and drear, 5 

Through the whistling sleet and snow, 
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept 

Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe. 

And ever the fitful gusts between 

A sound came from the land ; ' ° 

It was the sound of the trampling surf 

On the rocks and the hard sea sand. 

The breakers were right beneath her bows, 

She drifted a dreary wreck, 
And a whooping billow swept the crew 1 6 

Like icicles from her deck. 

She struck where the white and fleecy waves 

Looked soft as carded wool, 
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side 

Like the horns of an angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, 

With the masts went by the board ; 
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, 

Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared ! 

At daybreak, on the bleak sea beach, 

A fisherman stood aghast, 
To see the form of a maiden fair, 

Lashed close to a drifting mast. 



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202 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

The salt sea was frozen on her breast, 

The salt tears in her eyes ; 
And he saw her hair, like the brown seaweed, 

On the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 
In the midnight and the snow ! 

Christ save us all from a death like this, 
On the reef of Norman's Woe! 

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH 

Under a spreading chestnut tree 
The village smithy stands ; 

The smith, a mighty man is he, 
With large and sinewy hands; 

And the muscles of his brawny arms 
Are strong as iron bands. 

15 His hair is crisp, and black, and long, 

His face is like the tan; 
His brow is wet with honest sweat, 

He earns whate'er he can, 
And looks the whole world in the face, 

For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, from morn till night, 
You can hear his bellows blow ; 

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, 
With measured beat and slow, 

Like a sexton ringing the village bell, 
When the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school 
Look in at the open door ; 



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THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 203 

They love to see the flaming forge, 

And hear the bellows roar, 
And catch the burning sparks that fly 

Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church, 5 

And sits among his boys ; 
He hears the parson pray and preach, 

He hears his daughter's voice, 
Singing in the village choir, 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 10 

It sounds to him like her mother's voice, 

Singing in Paradise ! 
He needs must think of her once more, 

How in the grave she lies ; 
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 15 

A tear out of his eyes. 



Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing, 
Onward through life he goes; 

Each morning sees some task begin, 
Each evening sees it close ; 

Something attempted, something done, 
Has earned a night's repose. 



20 



Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 
For the lesson thou hast taught ! 

Thus at the flaming forge of life 
Our fortunes must be wrought ; 

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought ! 



204 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

EXCELSIOR 

The shades of night were falling fast, 
As through an Alpine village passed 
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 
A banner with the strange device, 
6 Excelsior ! 

His brow was sad ; his eye beneath, 
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, 
And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue, 
10 Excelsior! 

In happy homes he saw the light 
Of household fires gleam warm and bright ; 
Above, the spectral glaciers shone, 
And from his lips escaped a groan, 
!5 Excelsior! 

"Try not the Pass !" the old man said ; 
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead, 
The roaring torrent is deep and wide !" 
And loud that clarion voice replied, 
20 Excelsior! 



"Oh stay," the maiden said, "and rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast !" 
A tear stood in his bright blue eye, 
But still he answered, with a sigh, 
Excelsior! 



25 



"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! 
Beware the awful avalanche !" 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 205 

This was the peasant's last Good-night, 
A voice replied, far up the height, 
Excelsior ! 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
A voice cried through the startled air, 
Excelsior! 

A traveler, by the faithful hound. 
Half-buried in the snow was found. 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange device, 
Excelsior! 

There in the twilight cold and gray, 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, 
And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a falling star, 
Excelsior ! 



THE DAY IS DONE 

The day is done, and the darkness 

Falls from the wings of Night, 20 

As a feather is wafted downward 

From an eagle in his flight. 

I see the lights of the village 

Gleam through the rain and the mist, 
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me 2 5 

That my soul cannot resist: 



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206 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

A feeling of sadness and longing 
That is not akin to pain, 

And resembles sorrow only 
As the mist resembles rain. 

5 Come, read to me some poem, 

Some simple and heartfelt lay, 
That shall soothe this restless feeling, 
And banish the thoughts of day. 

Not from the grand old masters, 
10 Not from the bards sublime, 

Whose distant footsteps echo 
Through the corridors of Time. 

For, like strains of martial music, 
Their mighty thoughts suggest 
15 Life's endless toil and endeavor; 

And to-night I long for rest. 

Read from some humbler poet, 

Whose songs gushed from his heart, 
As showers from the clouds of summer, 
20 Or tears from the eyelids start ; 

Who through long days of labor, 
And nights devoid of ease, 

Still heard in his soul the music 
Of wonderful melodies. 



25 



Such songs have power to quiet 
The restless pulse of care, 

And come like the benediction 
That follows after prayer. 



10 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 207 

Then read from the treasured volume 

The poem of thy choice, 
And lend to the rhyme of the poet 

The beauty of thy voice. 

And the night shall be filled with music, 

And the cares that infest the day 
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, 

And as silently steal away. 

PAUL REVERE'S RIDE 

Listen, my children, and you shall hear 
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, 
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five; 
Hardly a man is now alive 
Who remembers that famous day and year. 

He said to his friend, "If the British march 
By land or sea from the town to-night, 
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch 
Of the North Church tower as a signal light, — 
One, if by land, and two, if by sea; 
And I on the opposite shore will be, 
Ready to ride and spread the alarm 
Through every Middlesex village and farm, 
For the country-folk to be up and to arm." 

Then he said, "Good-night !" and with muffled oar 
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, ^ 

Just as the moon rose over the bay, 
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay 
The Somerset, British man-of-war ; 
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar 



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208 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Across the moon like a prison bar, 

And a huge black hulk, that was magnified 

By its own reflection in the tide. 

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, 
5 Wanders and watches with eager ears, 

Till in the silence around him he hears 
The muster of men at the barrack door 
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, 
And the measured tread of the grenadiers, 
1 ° Marching down to their boats on the shore. 

Then he climbed the tower of the old North Church 
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, 
To the belfry-chamber overhead, 
And startled the pigeons from their perch 
On the somber rafters, that round him made 
Masses and moving shapes of shade, — 
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, 
To the highest window in the wall, 
Where he paused to listen and look down 
A moment on the roofs of the town, 
And the moonlight flowing over all. 
Beneath in the churchyard, lay the dead, 
In their night encampment on the hill, 
Wrapped in silence so deep and still 
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, 
The watchful night wind, as it went 
Creeping along from tent to tent, 
And seeming to whisper, "All is well !" 



20 



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A moment only he feels the spell 
Of the place, and the hour, and the secret dread 
Of the lonely belfry and the dead ; 






10 



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THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 209 

For suddenly all his thoughts are bent 
On a shadowy something far away, 
Where the river widens to meet the bay, — 
A line of black that bends and floats 
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats 

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride. 
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride 
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. 
Now he patted his horse's side, 
Now gazed at the landscape far and near, 
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, 
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth ; 
But mostly he watched with eager search 
The belfry-tower of the old North Church, 
As it rose above the graves on the hill, 
Lonely and spectral and somber and still. 
And, lo ! as he looks, on the belfry height 
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light ! 
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, 
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight 2 

A second lamp in the belfry burns ! 

A hurry of hoofs in a village street, 
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, 
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark 
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet : 
That was all ! And yet, through the gloom and the light, 
The fate of a nation was riding that night ; 
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, 
Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 

He has left the village and mounted the steep, 
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, 



210 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides ; 
And under the alders that skirt its edge, 
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, 
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. 

5 It was twelve by the village clock, 

When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. 
He heard the crowing of the cock, 
And the barking of the farmer's dog, 
And felt the damp of the river fog, 
1 That rises after the sun goes down. 

It was one by the village clock, 
When he galloped into Lexington. 
He saw the gilded weathercock 
Swim in the moonlight as he passed, 
15 And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, 

Gaze at him with a spectral glare, 
As if they already stood aghast 
At the bloody work they would look upon. 

It was two by the village clock, 
2 ° When he came to the bridge in Concord town. 

He heard the bleating of the flock, 

And the twitter of birds among the trees, 

And felt the breath of the morning breeze 

Blowing over the meadows brown. 
2 5 And one was safe and asleep in his bed 

Who at the bridge would be first to fall, 

Who that day would be lying dead, 

Pierced by a British musket-ball. 

You know the rest. In the books you have read, 
How the British Regulars fired and fled, — 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 211 

How the farmers gave them ball for ball, 

From behind each fence and farmyard wall, 

Chasing the red-coats down the lane, 

Then crossing the fields to emerge again 

Under the trees at the turn of the road, 5 

And only pausing to fire and load. 

So through the night rode Paul Revere ; 
And so through the night went his cry of alarm 
To every Middlesex village and farm, — 

A cry of defiance and not of fear, 10 

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, 
And a word that shall echo forevermore ! 
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, 
Through all our history, to the last, 

In the hour of darkness and peril and need, 15 

The people will waken and listen to hear 
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, 
And the midnight message of Paul Revere. 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 

(Selections) 
The Hunting of Pau-Puk-Keewis 

Full of wrath was Hiawatha 

When he came into the village, 2 o 

Found the people in confusion, 

Heard of all the misdemeanors, 

Of the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

Hard his breath came through his nostrils, 
Through his teeth he buzzed and muttered 2 5 

Words of anger and resentment, 
Hot and humming, like a hornet 
"I will slay this Pau-Puk-Keewis, 



212 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Slay this mischief-maker !" said he. 
"Not so long and wide the world is, 
Not so rude and rough the way is, 
That my wrath shall not attain him, 
6 That my vengeance shall not reach him !" 

Then in swift pursuit departed 
Hiawatha and the hunters 
On the trail of Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Through the forest, where he passed it, 

10 To the headlands where he rested; 

But they found not Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

Only in the trampled grasses, 

In the whortleberry-bushes, 

Found the couch where he had rested, 

15 Found the impress of his body. 

From the lowlands far beneath them, 
From the Muskoday, the meadow, 
Pau-Puk-Keewis, turning backward, 
Made a gesture of defiance, 

20 Made a gesture of derision ; 

And aloud cried Hiawatha, 
From the summit of the mountains : 
"Not so long and wide the world is, 
Not so rude and rough the way is, 

25 But my wrath shall overtake you, 

And my vengeance shall attain you !" 

Over rock and over river, 
Through bush, and brake, and forest, 
Ran the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis ; 

30 Like an antelope he bounded, 

Till he came unto a streamlet 
In the middle of the forest, 
To a streamlet still and tranquil, 
That had overflowed its margin, 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 213 

To a dam made by the beavers, 

To a pond of quiet water, 

Where knee-deep the trees were standing, 

Where the water-lilies floated, 

Where the rushes waved and whispered. 5 

On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
On the dam of trunks and branches, 
Through whose chinks the water spouted, 
O'er whose summit flowed the streamlet. 
From the bottom rose the beaver, 1 ° 

Looked with two great eyes of wonder, 
Eyes that seemed to ask a question, 
At the stranger, Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
O'er his ankles flowed the streamlet, 1 5 

Flowed the bright and silvery water, 
And he spake unto the beaver, 
With a smile he spake in this wise : 

"O my friend Ahmeek, the beaver, 
Cool and pleasant is the water ; 2 

Let me dive into the water, 
Let me rest there in your lodges ; 
Change me, too, into a beaver !" 

Cautiously replied the beaver, 
With reserve he thus made answer: 2 5 

"Let me first consult the others, 
Let me ask the other beavers." 
Down he sank into the water, 
Heavily sank he, as a stone sinks, 

Down among the leaves and branches, 3 

Brown and matted at the bottom. 

On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
O'er his ankles flowed the streamlet, 
Spouted through the chinks below him, 



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214 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Dashed upon the stones beneath him, 
Spread serene and calm before him, 
And the sunshine and the shadows 
Fell in flecks and gleams upon him, 
6 Fell in little shining patches, 

Through the waving, rustling branches. 

From the bottom rose the beavers, 
Silently above the surface 
Rose one head and then another, 
Till the pond seemed full of beavers, 
Full of black and shining faces. 

To the beavers Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Spake entreating, said in this wise : 
"Very pleasant is your dwelling, 
O my friends ! and safe from danger ; 
Can you not, with all your cunning, 
All your wisdom and contrivance, 
Change me, too, into a beaver ?" 

"Yes !" replied Ahmeek, the beaver, 
He the King of all the beavers, 
"Let yourself slide down among us, 
Down into the tranquil water." 

Down into the pond among them 
Silently sank Pau-Puk-Keewis ; 
2 5 Black became his shirt of deer-skin, 

Black his moccasins and leggings, 
In a broad black tail behind him 
Spread his fox-tails and his fringes; 
He was changed into a beaver. 
30 "Make me large," said Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

"Make me large and make me larger, 
Larger than the other beavers." 
"Yes," the beaver chief responded, 
"When our lodge below you enter, 



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THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 215 

In our wigwam we will make you 
Ten times larger than the others." 

Thus into the clear, brown water 
Silently sank Pau-Puk-Keewis : 
Found the bottom covered over 
With the trunks of trees and branches, 
Hoards of food against the winter, 
Piles and heaps against the famine ; 
Found the lodge with arching doorway, 
Leading into spacious chambers. 

Here they made him large and larger, 
Made him largest of the beavers, 
Ten times larger than the others. 
"You shall be our ruler," said they; 
"Chief and king of all the beavers." 15 

But not long had Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Sat in state among the beavers, 
When there came a voice of warning 
From the watchman at his station 

In the water-flags and lilies, 20 

Saying, "Here is Hiawatha ! 
Hiawatha with his hunters !" 

Then they heard a cry above them, 
Heard a shouting and a tramping, 
Heard a crashing and a rushing, 
And the water round and o'er them 
Sank and sucked away in eddies, 
And they knew their dam was broken. 

On the lodge's roof the hunters 
Leaped, and broke it all asunder ; 
Streamed the sunshine through the crevice, 
Sprang the beavers through the doorway, 
Hid themselves in deeper water, 
In the channel of the streamlet ; 



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216 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

But the mighty Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Could not pass beneath the doorway ; 
He was puffed with pride and feeding, 
He was swollen like a bladder. 
5 Through the roof looked Hiawatha, 

Cried aloud, "O Pau-Puk-Keewis ! 
Vain are all your craft and cunning, 
Vain your manifold disguises ! 
Well, I know you, Pau-Puk-Keewis!" 

10 With their clubs they beat and bruised him, 

Beat to death poor Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Pounded him as maize is pounded, 
Till his skull was crushed to pieces. 
Six tall hunters, lithe and limber, 

15 Bore him home on poles and branches, 

Bore the body of the beaver ; 
But the ghost, the Jeebi in him, 
Thought and felt as Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Still lived on as Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

20 And it fluttered, strove, and struggled, 

Waving hither, waving thither, 
As the curtains of a wigwam 
Struggle with their thongs of deer-skin, 
When the wintry wind is blowing; 

25 Till it drew itself together, 

Till it rose up from the body, 
Till it took the form and features 
Of the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Vanishing into the forest. 

30 But the wary Hiawatha 

Saw the figure ere it vanished, 
Saw the form of Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Glide into the soft blue shadow 
Of the pine-trees of the forest ; 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 217 

Toward the squares of white beyond it, 

Toward an opening in the forest, 

Like a wind it rushed and panted, 

Bending all the boughs before it, 

And behind it, as the rain comes, 5 

Came the steps of Hiawatha. 

To a lake with many islands 
Came the breathless Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Where among the water-lilies 

Pishnekuh, the brant, were sailing; 10 

Through the tufts of rushes floating, 
Steering through the reedy islands. 
Now their broad black beaks they lifted, 
Now they plunged beneath the water, 

Now they darkened in the shadow, J 6 

Now they brightened in the sunshine. 

"Pishnekuh !" cried Pau-Puk-Keewis. 
"Pishnekuh ! my brothers !" said he, 
"Change me to a brant with plumage, 

With a shining neck and feathers, 2 

Make me large, and make me larger, 
Ten times larger than the others." 

Straightway to a brant they changed him, 
With two huge and dusky pinions, 

With a bosom smooth and rounded, 25 

With a bill like two great paddles, 
Made him larger than the others, 
Ten times larger than the largest, 
Just as, shouting from the forest, 
On the shore stood Hiawatha. 3 

Up they rose with cry and clamor, 
With a whir and beat of pinions, 
Rose up from the reedy islands, 
From the water-flags and lilies. 



218 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

And they said to Pau-Puk-Keewis : 
"In your flying, look not downward, 
Take good heed and look not downward, 
Lest some strange mischance should happen, 
5 Lest some great mishap befall you !" 

Fast and far they fled to northward, 
Fast and far through mist and sunshine, 
Fed among the moors and fen-lands, 
Slept among the reeds and rushes. 

10 On the morrow as they journeyed, 

Buoyed and lifted by the South-wind, 
Wafted onward by the South-wind, 
Blowing fresh and strong behind them, 
Rose a sound of human voices, 

15 Rose a clamor from beneath them, 

From the lodges of a village, 
From the people miles beneath them. 

For the people of the village 
Saw the flock of brant with wonder, 

20 Saw the wings of Pau-Puk-Keewis 

Flapping far up in the ether, 
Broader than two doorway curtains. 

Pau-Puk-Keewis heard the shouting, 
Knew the voice of Hiawatha, 

2 5 Knew the outcry of Iagoo, 

And, forgetful of the warning, 
Drew his neck in, and looked downward, 
And the wind that blew behind him 
Caught his mighty fan of feathers, 

30 Sent him wheeling, whirling downward! 

All in vain did Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Struggle to regain his balance ! 
Whirling round and round and downward, 
He beheld in turn the village 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 219 

And in turn the flock above him, 

Saw the village coming nearer, 

And the flock receding farther, 

Heard the voices growing louder, 

Heard the shouting and the laughter ; 5 

Saw no more the flocks above him, 

Only saw the earth beneath him ; 

Dead out of the empty heaven, 

Dead among the shouting people, 

With a heavy sound and sullen, 1 

Fell the brant with broken pinions. 

But his soul, his ghost, his shadow, 
Still survived as Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Took again the form and features 

Of the handsome Yenadizze, 1 5 

And again went rushing onward, 
Followed fast by Hiawatha, 
Crying: "Not so wide the world is, 
Not so long and rough the way is, 

But my wrath shall overtake you, 20 

But my vengeance shall attain you !" 

And so near he came, so near him, 
That his hand was stretched to seize him, 
His right hand to seize and hold him, 
When the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis 25 

Whirled and spun about in circles, 
Fanned the air into a whirlwind, 
Danced the dust and leaves about him, 
And amid the whirling eddies 

Sprang into a hollow oak-tree, 3 

Changed himself into a serpent, 
Gliding out through root and rubbish. 

With his right hand Hiawatha 
Smote amain the hollow oak-tree, 



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220 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Rent it into shreds and splinters, 
Left it lying there in fragments. 
But in vain ; for Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Once again in human figure, 
5 Full in sight ran on before him, 

Sped away in gust and whirlwind, 
On the shores of Gitche Gumee, 
Westward by the Big-Sea-Water, 
Came unto the rocky headlands, 
To the Pictured Rocks of sandstone, 
Looking over lake and landscape. 

And the Old Man of the Mountain, 
He the Manito of Mountains, 
Opened wide his rocky doorways, 
Opened wide his deep abysses, 
Giving Pau-Puk-Keewis shelter 
In his caverns dark and dreary, 
Bidding Pau-Puk-Keewis welcome 
To his gloomy lodge of sandstone. 

20 There without stood Hiawatha, 

Found the doorways closed against him, 
With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 
Smote great caverns in the sandstone, 
Cried aloud in tones of thunder, 

25 "Open! I am Hiawatha!" 

But the Old Man of the Mountain 
Opened not, and made no answer 
From the silent crags of sandstone, 
From the gloomy rock abysses. 

30 Then he raised his hands to heaven, 

Called imploring on the tempest, 
Called Waywassimo, the lightning, 
And the thunder, Annemeekee ; 
And they came with night and darkness, 



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THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 221 

Sweeping down the Big-Sea- Water 
From the distant Thunder Mountains ; 
And the trembling Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Heard the footsteps of the thunder, 
Saw the red eyes of the lightning, 
Was afraid, and crouched and trembled. 

Then Waywassimo, the lightning, 
Smote the doorways of the caverns, 
With his war-club smote the doorways, 
Smote the jutting crags of sandstone, 
And the thunder, Annemeekee, 
Shouted down into the caverns, 
Saying, "Where is Pau-Puk-Keewis?" 
And the crags fell, and beneath them 
Dead among the rocky ruins 
Lay the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Lay the handsome Yenadizze, 

Slain in his own human figure. 
Ended were his wild adventures, 

Ended were his tricks and gambols, 20 

Ended all his mischief-making, 

All his gambling and his dancing, 

All his wooing of the maidens. 
Then the noble Hiawatha 

Took his soul, his ghost, his shadow, 2 5 

Spake and said : "O Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

Never more in human figure 

Shall you search for new adventures ; 

Never more with jest and laughter 

Dance the dust and leaves in whirlwinds ; 3 

But above there in the heavens 

You shall soar and sail in circles ; 

I will change you to an eagle, 

To Keneu, the great war-eagle, 



222 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Chief of all the fowls with feathers, 
Chief of Hiawatha's chickens." 

And the name of Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Lingers still among the people, 

5 Lingers still among the singers, 

And among the story-tellers ; 
And in Winter, when the snow-flakes 
Whirl in eddies round the lodges, 
When the wind in gusty tumult 

1 O'er the smoke-flue pipes and whistles, 

"There," they cry, "comes Pau-Puk-Keewis; 
He is dancing through the valleys, 
He is gathering in his harvest !" 

The Famine 

O the long and dreary Winter! 
O the cold and cruel Winter ! 
Ever thicker, thicker, thicker, 
Froze the ice on lake and river, 
Ever deeper, deeper, deeper, 
Fell the snow o'er all the landscape, 

20 Fell the covering snow, and drifted 

Through the forest, round the village. 

Hardly from his buried wigwam 
Could the hunter force a passage ; 
With his mittens and his snow-shoes 

2 5 Vainly walked he through the forest, 

Sought for bird or beast, and found none, 
Saw no track of deer or rabbit, 
In the snow beheld no footprints, 
In the ghastly, gleaming forest 

30 Fell, and could not rise from weakness, 

Perished there from cold and hunger. 
O the famine and the fever ! 



15 






THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 223 

O the wasting of the famine ! 
O the blasting of the fever ! 
O the wailing of the children ! 
O the anguish of the women ! 

All the earth was sick and famished ; 5 

Hungry was the air around them, 
Hungry was the sky above them, 
And the hungry stars in heaven 
Like the eyes of wolves glared at them ! 

Into Hiawatha's wigwam 1 ° 

Came two other guests as silent 
As the ghosts were, and as gloomy, 
Waited not to be invited, 
Did not parley at the doorway, 

Sat there without word of welcome 1 5 

In the seat of Laughing Water ; 

Looked with haggard eyes and hollow 

At the face of Laughing Water. 

And the foremost said : "Behold me ! 

I am Famine, Bukadawin I" 2 

And the other said : "Behold me ! 

I am Fever, Ahkosewin !" 
And the lovely Minnehaha 

Shuddered as they looked upon her, 

Shuddered at the words they uttered, 2 5 

Lay down on her bed in silence, 

Hid her face, but made no answer ; 

Lay there trembling, freezing, burning 

At the looks they cast upon her, 

At the fearful words they uttered. 3 ° 

Forth into the empty forest 

Rushed the maddened Hiawatha ; 

In his heart was deadly sorrow, 

In his face a stony firmness ; 



16 



224 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

On his brow the sweat of anguish 
Started, but it froze and fell not. 

Wrapped in furs and armed for hunting, 
With his mighty bow of ash-tree, 
r ° With his quiver full of arrows, 

With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 
Into the vast and vacant forest 
On his snow-shoes strode he forward. 
"Gitche Manito, the Mighty !" 

10 Cried he with his face uplifted 

In that bitter hour of anguish, 
"Give your children food, O father ! 
Give us food, or we must perish ! 
Give me food for Minnehaha, 
For my dying Minnehaha I" 

Through the far-resounding forest, 
Through the forest vast and vacant 
Rang that cry of desolation, 
But there came no other answer 

20 Than the echo of his crying, 

Than the echo of the woodlands, 
"Minnehaha ! Minnehaha !" 

All day long roved Hiawatha 
In that melancholy forest, 

25 Through the shadow of whose thickets, 

In the pleasant days of Summer, 
Of that ne'er forgotten Summer, 
He had brought his young wife homeward 
From the land of the Dacotahs ; 

30 When the birds sang in the thickets, 

And the streamlets laughed and glistened, 
And the air was full of fragrance, 
And the lovely Laughing Water 
Said with voice that did not tremble, 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 225 

"I will follow you, my husband I" 

In the wigwam with Nokomis, 
With those gloomy guests that watched her, 
With the Famine and the Fever, 

She was lying, the Beloved, 6 

She the dying Minnehaha. 

''Hark !" she said ; "I hear a rushing, 
Hear a roaring and a rushing, 
Hear the Falls of Minnehaha 

Calling to me from a distance!" 10 

"No, my child !" said old Nokomis, 
" 'Tis the night-wind in the pine-trees !" 

"Look I" she said ; "I see my father 
Standing lonely at his doorway, 

Beckoning to me from his wigwam, 15 

In the land of the Dacotahs!" 
"No, my child !" said old Nokomis, 
" 'Tis the smoke, that waves and beckons !" 

"Ah !" said she, "the eyes of Pauguk 
Glare upon me in the darkness, 20 

I can feel his icy fingers 
Gasping mine amid the darkness ! 
Hiawatha! Hiawatha!" 

And the desolate Hiawatha, 
Far away amid the forest, 25 

Miles away among the mountains, 
Heard that sudden cry of anguish, 
Heard the voice of Minnehaha 
Calling to him in the darkness, 
"Hiawatha ! Hiawatha !" 30 

Over snow-fields waste and pathless, 
Under snow-encumbered branches, 
Homeward hurried Hiawatha, 
Empty-handed, heavy-hearted, 



226 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing : 
" Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! 
Would that I had perished for you, 
Would that I were dead as you are ! 
5 Wahonowin! Wahonowin!" 

And he rushed into the wigwam, 
Saw the old Nokomis slowly 
Rocking to and fro and moaning, 
Saw his lovely Minnehaha 

10 Lying dead and cold before him, 

And his bursting heart within him 
Uttered such a cry of anguish, 
That the forest moaned and shuddered, 
That the very stars in heaven 

1 5 Shook and trembled with his anguish. 

Then he sat down, still and speechless, 
On the bed of Minnehaha, 
At the feet of Laughing Water, 
At those willing feet, that never 

2 More would lightly run to meet him, 

Never more would lightly follow. 

With both hands his face he covered. 
Seven long days and nights he sat there, 
As if in a swoon he sat there, 

2 5 Speechless, motionless, unconscious 

Of the daylight or the darkness. 
Then they buried Minnehaha; 
In the snow a grave they made her, 
In the forest deep and darksome, 
q Underneath the moaning hemlocks ; 

Clothed her in her richest garments, 
Wrapped her in her robes of ermine, 
Covered her with snow, like ermine ; 
Thus they buried Minnehaha. 






THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 227 

And at night a fire was lighted, 
On her grave four times was kindled, 
For her soul upon its journey 
To the Islands of the Blessed. 

From his doorway Hiawatha 5 

Saw it burning in the forest, 
Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks ; 
From his sleepless bed uprising, 
From the bed of Minnehaha, 

Stood and watched it at the doorway, 10 

That it might not be extinguished, 
Might not leave her in the darkness. 

"Farewell !" said he, "Minnehaha ! 
Farewell, O my Laughing Water! 

All my heart is buried with you, 15 

All my thoughts go onward with you! 
Come not back again to labor, 
Come not back again to suffer, 
Where the Famine and the Fever 

Wear the heart and waste the body. 20 

Soon my task will be completed, 
Soon your footsteps I shall follow 
To the Islands of the Blessed, 
To the Kingdom of Ponemah, 
To the Land of the Hereafter !" 25 



THE REPUBLIC 

From The Building of the Ship 

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State ! 
Sail on, O Union, strong and great ! 
Humanity with all its fears, 
With all the hopes of future years, 
Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! 



228 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

We know what Master laid thy keel, 
What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, 
Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, 
What anvils rang, what hammers beat, 
5 In what a forge and what a heat 

Were shaped the anchors of thy hope ! 
Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 
Tis of the wave, and not the rock ; 
Tis but the flapping of the sail, 

1 ° And not a rent made by the gale ! 

In spite of rock and tempest's roar, 
In spite of false lights on the shore, 
Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea ! 
Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, 

15 Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, 

Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, 
Are all with thee,— are all with thee ! 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
Born in Cambridge, Mass., 1819; died there, 1891 

THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL 

Peelude to Paet First 

Over his keys the musing organist, 
Beginning doubtfully and far away, 
20 First lets his fingers wander as they list, 

And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay 
Then, as the touch of his loved instrument 

Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme, 
First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent 
2 5 Along the wavering vista of his dream. 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 

Not only around our infancy 
Doth heaven with all its splendors lie; 
Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, 
We Sinais climb and know it not. 

Over our manhood bend the skies ; 

Against our fallen and traitor lives 
The great winds utter prophecies : 

With our faint hearts the mountain strives ; 
Its arms outstretched, the druid wood 

Waits with its benedicite ; 
And to our age's drowsy blood 

Still shouts the inspiring sea. 

Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us ; 

The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in, 
The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us, 

We bargain for the gtaves we lie in; 
At the Devil's booth are all things sold, 
Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold ; 

For a cap and bells our lives we pay, 
Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking: 

'Tis heaven alone that is given away, 
'Tis only God may be had for the asking; 
No price is set on the lavish summer ; 
June may be had by the poorest comer. 

And what is so rare as a day in June? 

Then, if ever, come perfect days ; 
Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, 

And over it softly her warm ear lays : 
Whether we look, or whether we listen, 
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten ; 
Every clod feels a stir of might, 



229 



10 



15 



20 



25 



30 



230 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

An instinct within it that reaches and towers, 
And, groping blindly above it for light, 

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers ; 
The flush of life may well be seen 
5 Thrilling back over hills and valleys ; 

The cowslip startles in meadows green, 

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, 
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean 
To be some happy creature's palace ; 
1 ° The little bird sits at his door in the sun, 

Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, 
And lets his illumined being o'errun 

With the deluge of summer it receives ; 
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, 
1 5 And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings ; 

He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, — 
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best? 

Now is the high-tide of the year, 
And whatever of life hath ebbed away 
?0 Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer, 

Into every bare inlet and creek and bay ; 

Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, 

We are happy now because God wills it ; 

No matter how barren the past may have been, 
2 5 'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green ; 

We sit in the warm shade and feel right well 

How the sap creeps up and blossoms swell ; 

We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing 

That skies are clear and grass is growing ; 
30 The breeze comes whispering in our ear, 

That dandelions are blossoming near, 

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, 

That the river is bluer than the sky, 






15 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 231 

That the robin is plastering his house hard by ; 
And if the breeze kept the good news back, 
For other couriers we should not lack ; 

We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, — • 
And hark ! how clear bold chanticleer, 5 

Warmed with the new wine of the year, 

Tells all in his lusty crowing! 
Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how ; 

Everything is upward striving ; 
'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true 
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue, — 

Tis the natural way of living : 
Who knows whither the clouds have fled? 

In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake ; 
And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, 

The heart forgets its sorrow and ache ; 
The soul partakes of the season's youth. 

And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe 
Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, 

Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. 20 

What wonder if Sir Launfal now 
Remembered the keeping of his vow ? 

Part First 
I. 

"My golden spurs now bring to me, 

And bring to me my richest mail, 
For to-morrow I go over land and sea 25 

In search of the Holy Grail ; 
Shall never a bed for me be spread, 
Nor shall a pillow be under my head, 
Till I begin my vow to keep ; 

Here on the rushes will I sleep, 30 

And perchance there may come a vision true 



232 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Ere day create the world anew." 
■ Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew dim, 
Slumber fell like a cloud on him, 
And into his soul the vision flew. 

II. 
5 The crows flapped over by twos and threes, 

In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees, 
The little birds sang as if it were 
The one day of summer in all the year, 
And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees : 
1 ° The castle alone in the landscape lay 

Like an outpOst of winter, dull and gray : 
'Twas the proudest hall in the North Countree, 
And never its gates might opened be, 
Save to lord or lady of high degree ; 
15 Summer besieged it on every side, 

But the churlish stone her assaults defied ; 
She could not scale the chilly wall, 
Though around it for leagues her pavilions tall 
Stretched left and right, 
Over the hills and out of sight ; 
Green and broad was every tent, 
And out of each a murmur went 
Till the breeze fell off at night. 



20 



25 



III. 
The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang. 
And through the dark arch a charger sprang, 
Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight, 
In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright 
It seemed the dark castle had gathered all 
Those shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall 
In his siege of three hundred summers long, 






THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 233 

And, binding them all in one blazing sheaf, 

Had cast them forth : so, young and strong, 
And lightsome as a locust-leaf, 
Sir Launfal flashed forth in his unscarred mail, 
To seek in all climes for the Holy Grail. 5 

IV. 

It was morning on hill and stream and tree, 

And morning in the young knight's heart ; 
Only the castle moodily 
Rebuffed the gifts of the sunshine free, 

And gloomed by itself apart ; 1 

The season brimmed all other things up 
Full as the rain fills the pitcher-plant's cup. 

V. 

As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome gate, 

He was 'ware of a leper, crouched by the same, 
Who begged with his hand and moaned as he sate ; 5 

And a loathing over Sir Launfal came ; 
The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill, 

The flesh 'neath his armor 'gan shrink and crawl, 
And midway its leap his heart stood still 

Like a frozen waterfall ; 2 ° 

For this man, so foul and bent of stature, 
Rasped harshly against his dainty nature, 
And seemed the one blot on the summer morn, — 
So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn . 

VI. 

The leper raised not the gold from the dust : 2 5 

"Better to me the poor man's crust, 
Better the blessing of the poor, 
Though I turn me empty from his door ; 



234 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

That is no true alms which the hand can hold ; 
He gives nothing but worthless gold 
Who gives from a sense of duty ; 
But he who gives but a slender mite, 
5 And gives to that which is out of sight, 

That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty 
Which runs through all and doth all unite, — 
The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms, 
The heart outstretches its eager palms, 
10 For a god goes with it and makes it store 

To the soul that was starving in darkness before/' 

Pbelude to Part Second 

Down swept the chill wind from the mountain peak, 

From the snow five thousand summers old ; 
On open wold and hill-top bleak 

15 It had gathered all the cold, 

And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek : 
It carried a shiver everywhere 
From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare ; 
The little brook heard it and built a roof 

2 ° 'Neath which he could house him, winter-proof ; 

All night by the white stars' frosty gleams 
He groined his arches and matched his beams ; 
Slender and clear were his crystal spars 
As the lashes of light that trim the stars ; 

25 He sculptured every summer delight 

In his halls and chambers out of sight; 
Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt 
Down through a frost-leaved forest-crypt, 
Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed trees 

30 Bending to counterfeit a breeze ; 

Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew 
But silvery mosses that downward grew ; 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 235 

Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief 

With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf ; 

Sometimes it was simply smooth and clear 

For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and here 

He had caught the nodding bulrush-tops 6 

And hung them thickly with diamond-drops, 

That crystaled the beams of moon and sun, 

And made a star of every one : 

No mortal builder's most rare device 

Could match this winter-palace of ice; 10 

'Twas as if every image that mirrored lay 

In his depths serene through the summer day, 

Each fleeting shadow of earth and sky, 

Lest the happy model should be lost, 
Had been mimicked in fairy masonry * 5 

By the elfin builders of the frost. 

Within the hall are song and laughter, 

The cheeks of Christmas grow red and jolly, 
And sprouting is every corbel and rafter 

With lightsome green of ivy and holly ; 2 o 

Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide 
Wallows the Yule-log's roaring tide ; 
The broad flame-pennons droop and flap 

And belly and tug as a flag in the wind ; 
Like a locust shrills the imprisoned sap, 2 5 

Hunted to death in its galleries blind ; 
And swift little troops of silent sparks, 

Now pausing, now scattering away as in fear, 
Go threading the soot-forest's tangled darks 

Like herds of startled deer. 3 ° 

But the wind without was eager and sharp, 
Of Sir Launfal's gray hair it makes a harp, 



236 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

And rattles and wrings 
The icy strings, 
Singing, in dreary monotone, 
A Christmas carol of its own, 
5 Whose burden still, as he might guess, 

Was — "Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless!" 
The voice of the seneschal flared like a torch 
As he shouted the wanderer away from the porch, 
And he sat in the gateway and saw all night 
10 The great hall-fire, so cheery and bold, 

Through the window-slits of the castle old, 
Build out its piers of ruddy light, 
Against the drift of the cold. 

Part Second 

I. 
There was never a leaf on bush or tree, 
15 The bare boughs rattled shudderingly ; 

The river was dumb and could not speak, 

For the weaver Winter its shroud had spun. 
A single crow on the tree-top bleak 

From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun ; 
2 Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold, 

As if her veins were sapless and old, 
And she rose up decrepitly 
For a last dim look at earth and sea. 

II. 
Sir Launfal turned from his own hard gate, 
2 5 For another heir in his earldom sate ; 

An old, bent man, worn out and frail, 
He came back from seeking the Holy Grail ; 
Little he recked of his earldom's loss, 
No more on his surcoat was blazoned the cross, 






10 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 237 

But deep in his soul the sign he wore, 
The badge of the suffering and the poor. 

III. 

Sir Launfal's raiment thin and spare 

Was idle mail 'gainst the barbed air, 

For it was just at the Christmas time; 

So he mused, as he sat, of a sunnier clime, 

And sought for a shelter from cold and snow 

In the light and warmth of long-ago ; 

He sees the snake-like caravan crawl 

O'er the edge of the desert, black and small, 

Then nearer and nearer, till, one by one, 

He can count the camels in the sun, 

As over the red-hot sands they pass 

To where, in its slender necklace of grass, 

The little spring laughed and leapt in the shade, 

And with its own self like an infant played, 

And waved its signal of palms. 

IV. 

"For Christ's sweet sake, I beg an alms ;" — 

The happy camels may reach the spring, 

But Sir Launfal sees only the grewsome thing, 2 

The leper, lank as the rain-blanched bone, 

That cowers beside him, a thing as lone 

And white as the ice-isles of Northern seas 

In the desolate horror of his disease. 

V. 
And Sir Launfal said— "I behold in thee 25 

An image of Him who died on the tree ; 
Thou also hast had thy crown of thorns, — 
Thou also hast had the world's buffets and scorns — 



15 



238 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

And to thy life were not denied 
The wounds in the hands and feet and side : 
Mild Mary's Son, acknowledge me; 
Behold, through him, I give to Thee !" 

VI. 

5 Then the soul of the leper stood up in his eyes 

And looked at Sir Launfal, and straightway lie 
Remembered in what a haughtier guise 

He had flung an alms to leprosie, 
When he girt his young life up in gilded mail 
1 And set forth in search of the Holy Grail. 

The heart within him was ashes and dust ; 
He parted in twain his single crust, 
He broke the ice on the streamlet's brink, 
And gave the leper to eat and drink : 
15 'Twas a mouldy crust of coarse brown bread, 

'Twas water out of a wooden bowl, — 
Yet with fine wheaten bread was the leper fed, 
And 'twas red wine he drank with his thirsty soul. 



20 



25 



VII. 

As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face, 

A light shone round about the place ; 

The leper no longer crouched at his side, 

But stood before him glorified, 

Shining and tall and fair and straight 

As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate, — 

Himself the Gate whereby men can 

Enter the temple of God in Man. 

VIII. 
His words were shed softer than leaves from the pine, 
And they fell on Sir Launfal as snows on the brine, 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 239 

That mingle their softness and quiet in one 

With the shaggy unrest they float down upon ; 

And the voice that was calmer than silence said, 

"Lo, it is I, be not afraid ! 

In many climes, without avail, 5 

Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail; 

Behold, it is here, — this cup which thou 

Didst fill at the streamlet for Me but now ; 

This crust is My body broken for thee, 

This water His blood that died on the tree; 1° 

The Holy Supper is kept, indeed, 

In whatso we share with another's need: 

Not what we give, but what we share, — 

For the gift without the giver is bare ; 

Who gives himself with his alms feeds three, — 15 

Himself, his hungering neighbor, and Me." 

IX. 

Sir Launf al awoke as from a swound : — 

'The Grail in my castle here is found ! 

Hang my idle armor up on the wall, 

Let it be the spider's banquet-hall ; 2 ° 

He must be fenced with stronger mail 

Who would seek and find the Holy Grail." 

X. 

The castle gate stands open now, 

And the wanderer is welcome to the hall 
As the hangbird is. to the elm-tree bough : 

No longer scowl the turrets tall, 
The Summer's long siege at last is o'er ; 
When the first poor outcast went in at the door, 
She entered with him in disguise, 
And mastered the fortress by surprise ; 



25 



240 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

There is no spot she loves so well on ground, 
She lingers and smiles there the whple year round ; 
The meanest serf on Sir Launfal's land 
Has hall and bower at his command ; 
5 And there's no poor man in the North Cbuntree 

But is lord of the earldom as much as he. 

THE PRESENT CRISIS 
When a deed is done for Freedom, through the broad earth's 

aching breast 
Runs a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling on from east to west, 
1 And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels the soul within him climb 
To the awful verge of manhood, as the energy sublime 
Of a century bursts full-blossomed on the thorny stem of Time 

Through the walls of hut and palace shoots the instantaneous 
throe, 
15 When the travail of the Ages wrings earth's systems to and fro: 
At the birth of each new Era, with a recognizing start, 
Nation wildly looks at nation, standing with mute lips apart, 
And glad Truth's yet mightier man-child leaps beneath the 
Future's heart. 
20* * * * * * * 

Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide, 
In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side; 
Some great cause, God's new Messiah, offering each the bloom 
or blight, 
25 Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon the right, 
And the choice goes by forever 'twixt that, darkness and that light. 

Hast thou chosen, O my people, on whose party thou shalt stand, 
Ere the Doom from its worn sandals shakes the dust against our 
land? 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 241 

Though the cause of Evil prosper, yet 'tis Truth alone is strong. 
And, albeit she wander outcast now, I see around her throng 
Trotps of beautiful, tall angels, to enshield her from all wrong. 

Backward look across the ages and the beacon moments see, 

That, like peaks of some sunk continent, jut through Oblivion's 5 

sea; 
Not an ear in court or market for the low foreboding cry 
Of those Crises, God's stern winnowers, from whose feet earth's 

chaff must fly ; 
Never shows the choice momentous till the judgment hath 10 

passed by. 

Careless seems the great Avenger ; history's pages but record 
One death-grapple in the darkness 'twixt old systems and the 

Word; 
Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the Throne, — 10 
Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim unknown, 
Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above his own. 

We see dimly in the Present what is small and what is great, 

Slow of faith how weak an arm may turn the iron helm of fate ; 

But the soul is still oracular; amid the market's din, 20 

List the ominous stern whisper from the Delphic cave within, — 

"They enslave their children's children who make compromise 

with sin." 
******* 

Then to side with Truth is noble when we share her wretched 25 

crust, 
Ere her cause bring fame and profit, and 'tis prosperous to be 

just; 
Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward stands aside, 
Doubting in his abject spirit, till his Lord is crucified, 30 

And the multitude make virtue of the faith they had denied. 



242 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Count me o'er earth's chosen heroes, — they were souls that stood 

alone, 
While the men they agonized for hurled the contumelious stone, 
Stood serene, and down the future saw the golden beam incline 
5 To the side of perfect justice, mastered by their faith divine, 
By one man's plain truth to manhood and to God's supreme 

design. 

By the light of burning heretics Christ's bleeding feet I track, 
Toiling up new Calvaries ever with the cross that turns not back, 
10 And these mounts of anguish number how each generation 
learned 
One new word of that grand Credo which in prophet-hearts hath 

burned 
Since the first man stood God-conquered with his face to heaven 
15 upturned. 

For Humanity sweeps onward : where to-day the martyr stands, 
On the morrow crouches Judas with the silver in his hands ; 
Far in front the cross stands ready and the crackling fagots burn, 
While the hooting mob of yesterday in silent awe return 
2 To glean up the scattered ashes into History's golden urn. 

Tis as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slaves 
Of a legendary virtue carved upon our fathers' graves ; 
Worshippers of light ancestral make the present light a crime ; — 
2 5 Was the Mayflower launched by cowards, steered by men behind 

their time? 
Turn those tracks toward Past or Future, that make Plymouth 

Rock sublime? 

They were men of present valor, stalwart old iconoclasts, 
30 Unconvinced by axe or gibbet that all virtue was the Past's; 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 243 

But we make their truth our falsehood, thinking that hath made 

us free, 
Hoarding it in mouldy parchments, while our tender spirits flee 
The rude grasp of that great Impulse which drove them across 

the sea. 5 

They have rights who dare maintain them; we are traitors to 

our sires, 
Smothering in their holy ashes Freedom's new-lit altar-fires; 
Shall we make their creed our jailer? Shall we, in our haste 10 

to slay, 
From the tombs of the old prophets steal the funeral lamps away 
To light up the martyr-fagots round the prophets of to-day ? 

New occasions teach new duties; Time makes ancient good 

uncouth ; 1 5 

They must upward still, and onward, who would keep abreast 
of Truth ; 

Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires! we ourselves must Pil- 
grims be, 

Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the desperate 20 
winter sea, 

Nor attempt the Future's portal with the Past's blood-rusted key. 

THE COURTIN' 

God makes sech nights, all white an' still 



Fur'z you can look or listen, 
Moonshine an' snow on field an* hill, 
All silence an* all glisten. 

Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown 
An' peeked in thru' the winder, 

An' there sot Huldy all alone, 
With no one nigh to hender. 



2S 



244 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

A fireplace filled the room's one side 
With half a cord o' wood in, — 

There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died), 
To bake ye to a puddin'. 

5 i The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out 

Toward the pootiest, bless her! 
An' leetle flames danced all about 
The chiny on the dresser. 

• 
Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, 
1 An' in amongst 'em rusted 

The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young 
Fetched back from Concord busted. 

The very room, coz she was in, 
Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', 
*5 An' she looked full ez rosy agin 

Ez the apples she was peelin'. 

'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look 

On sech a blessed cretur, 
A dogrose blushin' to a brook 
20 Ain't modester nor sweeter. 

He was six foot o' man, A I, 
Clear grit an' human natur' ; 

None couldn't quicker pitch a ton 
Nor dror a furrer straighter. 

2 5 He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, 

Hed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, 
Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells,— 
All is, he couldn't love 'em. 






THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 245 

But long o' her his veins 'ould run 

All crinkly like curled maple, 
The side she breshed felt full o' sun 

Ez a south slope in Ap'il. 

She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing 5 

Ez hisn in the choir; 
Mv ! when he made Ole Hunderd ring, 

She knowed the Lord was nigher. 

An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, 

When her new meetin'-bunnet 10 

Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair 

O' blue eyes sot upon it. 

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some! 

She seemed to 've gut a new soul, 
For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, 

Down to her very shoe-sole. 

She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, 

A-raspin' on the scraper, — 
All ways to once her feelins flew 

Like sparks in burnt-up paper. 



20 



He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, 

Some doubtfle o' the sekle, 
His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, 

But hern went pity Zekle. 

An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk 25 

Ez though she wished him furder, 
An' on her apples kep' to work, 

Parm' away like murder. 



246 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

"You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" 

"Wal ... no ... I come designin' " — 

"To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es 
Agin to-morrer's i'nin'." 

5 To say why gals acts so or so, 

Or don't, would be presuming 
Mebby to mean yes an' say no 
Comes nateral to women. 

He stood a spell on one foot fust, 
10 Then stood a spell on t'other, 

An' on which one he felt the wust 
He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. 

Says he, "I'd better call agin;" 
Says she, "Think likely, Mister;" 
1 5 Thet last word pricked him like a pin, 

An' . . . Wal, he up an' kist her. 

When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, 

Huldy sot pale ez ashes, 
All kin' o' smily roun' the lips 
25 An' teary roun' the lashes. 

For she was jes' the quiet kind 

Whose naturs never vary, 
Like streams that keep a summer mind 

Snowhid in Jenooary. 

2 5 The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued 

Too tight for all expressin', 
Tell mother see how metters stood, 
An' gin 'em both her blessin'. 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 247 

Then her red come back like the tide 

Down to the Bay o' Fundy, 
An' all I know is they was cried 

In meetin' come nex' Sunday. 

L'ENVOI 

To the Muse 

Whither? Albeit I follow fast, 5 

In all life's circuit I but find, 
Not where thou art, but where thou wast, 

Sweet beckoner, more fleet than wind ! 
I haunt the pine-dark solitudes, 

With soft brown silence carpeted, 10 

And plot to snare thee in the woods : 

Peace I o'ertake, but thou art fled ! 
I find the rock where thou didst rest, 
The moss thy skimming feet hath prest; 

All Nature with thy parting thrills, 15 

Like branches after birds new-flown; 

Thy passage hill and hollow fills 
With hints of virtue not their own ; 
In dimples still the water slips 
Where thou hast dipt thy finger-tips ; 2 

Just, just beyond, forever burn 

Gleams of a grace without return ; 

Upon thy shade I plant my foot, 
And through my frame strange raptures shoot; 
All of thee but thyself I grasp; 25 

I seem to fold thy luring shape, 
And vague air to my bosom clasp, 

Thou lithe, perpetual Escape! 



248 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

FOR AN AUTOGRAPH 

Though old the thought and oft exprest, 
Tis his at last who says it best, — 
I'll try my fortune with the rest. 

Life is a leaf of paper white 
5 Whereon each one of us may write 

His word or two, and then comes night. 

"Lo, time and space enough," we cry, 
"To write an epic !" so we try 
Our nibs upon the edge, and die. 

1 ° Muse not which way the pen to hold, 

Luck hates the slow and loves the bold, 
Soon come the darkness and the cold. 

Greatly begin ! though thou have time 
But for a line, be that sublime, — 
15 Not failure, but low aim, is crime. 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 

Born in Haverhill, Mass., 1807 ; died in Hampton Falls, N. H., 1892 

SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE 

Of all the rides since the birth of time, 
Told in story or sung in rhyme, — 
On Apuleius's Golden Ass, 
Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass, 
20 Witch astride of a human back, 

Islam's prophet on Al-Borak, — 
The strangest ride that ever was sped 
Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead! 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 249 

Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 

Body of turkey, head of owl, 

Wings adroop like a rained-on fowl, 6 

Feathered and ruffled in every part, 

Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. 

Scores of women, old and young, 

Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue, 

Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane, 01 

Shouting and singing the shrill refrain : 

"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, 

Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt 
By the women o' Marble'ead !" 

Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips, 15 

Girls in bloom of cheek and lips, 

Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase 

Bacchus round some antique vase, 

Brief of skirt, with ankles bare, 

Loose of kerchief and loose of hair, 20 

With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang, 

Over and over the Maenads sang: 

"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, 

Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt 

By the women o' Marble'ead !" 2 5 

Small pity for him ! — He sailed away 

From a leaking ship in Chaleur Bay, — 

Sailed away from a sinking wreck, 

With his own town's people on her deck ! 

"Lay by ! lay by" they called to him. 30 

Back he answered, "Sink or swim! 



250 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Brag of your catch of fish again !" 
And off he sailed through the fog and rain ! 
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 
5 By the women of Marblehead! 

Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur 
That wreck shall lie forevermore. 
Mother and sister, wife and maid, 
Looked from the rocks of Marblehead 

1 ° Over the moaning and rainy sea, — 

Looked for the coming that might not be ! 

What did the winds and the sea-birds say 

Of the cruel captain who sailed away? — 

Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 

1 5 Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 

By the women of Marblehead ! 

Through the street, on either side, 
Up flew windows, doors swung wide ; 
Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray, 

2 ° Treble lent the fish-horn's bray. 

Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound, 
Hulks of old sailors run aground, 
Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane, 
^ And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain : 

2 5 "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, 

Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt 
By the women o' Marble'ead !" 

Sweetly along the Salem road 
Bloom of orchard and lilac showed. 
30 Little the wicked skipper knew 

Of the fields so green and the skies so blue. 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 251 

Riding there in his sorry trim, 
Like an Indian idol glum and grim, 
Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear 
Of voices shouting, far and near: 

"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, 5 

Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt 
By the women o' Marble'ead !" 

"Hear me, neighbors !" at last he cried, — 

"What to me is this noisy ride? 

What is the shame that clothes the skin 10 

To the nameless horror that lives within? 

Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck, 

And hear a cry from a reeling deck ! 

Hate me and curse me, — I only dread 

The hand of God and the face of the dead !" 1 5 

Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 

Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 

Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea 

Said, "God has touched him! Why should we!" 2 

Said an old wife mourning her only son, 

"Cut the rogue's tether and let him run !" 

So with soft relentings and rude excuse, 

Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose, 

And gave him a cloak to hide him in, 2 5 

And left him alone with his shame and sin. 

Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 

Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 



252 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

THE BAREFOOT BOY 

Blessings on thee, little man, 
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! 
With thy turned-up pantaloons, 
And thy merry whistled tunes; 
5 With thy red lip, redder still 

Kissed by strawberries on the hill ; 
With the sunshine on thy face, 
Through the torn brim's jaunty grace; 
From my heart I give thee joy, — 

10 I was once a barefoot boy! 

Prince thou art, — the grown-up man 
Only is republican. 
Let the million-dollared ride ! 
Barefoot, trudging at his side, 

15 Thou hast more than he can buy 

In the reach of ear and eye, — 
Outward sunshine, inward joy: 
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy ! 

Oh for boyhood's painless play, 
20 Sleep that wakes in laughing day, 

Health that mocks the doctor's rules, 
Knowledge never learned of schools. 
Of the wild bee's morning chase, 
Of the wild-flower's time and place, 
Flight of fowl and habitude 
Of the tenants of the wood ; 
How the tortoise bears his shell, 
How the woodchuck digs his cell, 
And the ground mole sinks his well ; 
30 How the robin feeds her young, 

How the oriole's nest is hung; 
Where the whitest lilies blow, 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 253 

Where the freshest berries grow, 

Where the ground-hut trails its vine, 

Where the wood-grape's clusters shine ; 

Of the black wasp's cunning way, 

Mason of his walls of clay, 5 

And the architectural plans 

Of gray hornet artisans! 

For, eschewing books and tasks, 

Nature answers all he asks ; 

Hand in hand with her he walks, 10 

Face to face with her he talks, 

Part and parcel of her joy, — 

Blessings on the barefoot boy ! 



15 



20 






Oh, for boyhood's time of June, 
Crowding years in one brief moon, 
When all things I heard or saw 
Me, their master, waited for. 
I was rich in flowers and trees, 
Humming-birds and honey-bees ; 
For my sport the squirrel played, 
Plied the snouted mole his spade ; 
For my taste the blackberry cone 
Purpled over hedge and stone ; 
Laughed the brook for my delight 
Through the day and through the night,— 
Whispering at the garden wall, 
Talked with me from fall to fall ; 
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, 
Mine the walnut slopes beyond, 
Mine, on bending orchard trees, 
Apples of Hesperides ! 
Still as my horizon grew, 
Larger grew my riches, too ; 



25 



254 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

All the world I saw or knew 
Seemed a complex Chinese toy, 
Fashioned for a barefoot boy ! 

Oh for festal dainties spread, 
5 Like my bowl of milk and bread ; 

Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, 
On the door-stone, gray and rude ! 
O'er me, like a regal tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, 

10 Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, 

Looped in many a wind-swung fold, 
While for music came the play 
Of the pied frogs' orchestra; 
And, to light the noisy choir, 

15 Lit the fly his lamp of fire. 

I was monarch : pomp and joy 
Waited on the barefoot boy ! 

Cheerily, then, my little man, 
Live and laugh, as boyhood can ! 

20 Though the flinty slopes be hard, 

Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, 
Every morn shall lead thee through 
Fresh baptisms of the dew ; 
Every evening from thy feet 
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: 
All too soon these feet must hide 
Tn the prison cells of pride, 
Lose the freedom of the sod, 
Like the colt's for work be shod, 

30 Made to tread the mills of toil, 

Up and down in ceaseless moil : 
Happy if their track be found 



<THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 255 

( Never on forbidden ground; 
Happy if they sink not in 
Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 
Ah ! that thou couldst know thy joy, 
Ere it passes, barefoot boy ! 5 

IN SCHOOL-DAYS 

( Still sits the school-house by the road, 
A ragged beggar sleeping; 
Around it still the sumachs grow, 
And blackberry vines are creeping. 

Within, the master's desk is seen, 10 

Deep scarred by raps official ; 
The warping floor, the battered seats, 

The jack-knife's carved initial; 

The charcoal frescos on its wall; 

Its door's worn sill, betraying 15 

The feet that, creeping slow to school, 

Went storming out to playing ! 

Long years ago a winter sun 

Shone over it at setting ; 
Lit up its western window-panes, 2 

And low eaves' icy fretting. 

It touched the tangled golden curls, 

And brown eyes full of grieving, 
Of one who still her steps delayed 

When all the school were leaving. 2 5 

For near her stood the little boy 

Her childish favor singled: 
His cap pulled low upon a face 

Where pride and shame were mingled. 



256 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Pushing with restless feet the snow 
To right and left, he lingered; — 

As restlessly her tiny hands 

The blue-checked apron fingered. 

5 He saw her lift her eyes ; he felt 

The soft hand's light caressing, 
And heard the tremble of her voice, 
As if a fault confessing. 

"I'm sorry that I spelt the word : 
10 I hate to go above you, 

Because," — the brown eyes lower fell, — 
"Because, you see, I love you !" 

Still memory to a gray-haired man 
That sweet child-face is showing. 
1 5 Dear girl ! The grasses on her grave 

Have forty years been growing! 

He lives to learn, in life's hard school, 

How few who pass above him 
Lament their triumph and his loss, 
2 o Like her, — because they love him. 



MY PLAYMATE 

The pines were dark on Ramoth hill 
Their song was soft and low ; 

The blossoms in the sweet May wind 
Were falling like the snow. 

2 5 The blossoms drifted at our feet, 

The orchard birds sang clear ; 
The sweetest and the saddest day 
It seemed of all the year. 






THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 257 

For, more to me than birds or flowers, 

My playmate left her home, 
And took with her the laughing spring, 

The music and the bloom. 

She kissed the lips of kith and kin, 

She laid her hand in mine: 
What more could ask the bashful boy 

Who fed her father's kine? 

She left us in the bloom of May : 

The constant years told o'er 
Their seasons with as sweet May morns, 

But she came back no more. 

I walk, with noiseless feet, the round 

Of uneventful years ; 
Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring 

And reap the autumn ears. 



The wild grapes wait us by the brook, 

The brown nuts on the hill, 
And still the May-day flowers make sweet 

The woods of Follymill. 



10 



15 



She lives where all the golden year 

Her summer roses blow; 
The dusky children of the sun 

Before her come and go. 20 

There haply with her jeweled hands 

She smooths her silken gown, — 
No more the homespun lap wherein 

I shook the walnuts down. 



25 



258 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

The lilies blossom in the pond, 
The bird builds in the tree, 

The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill 
The slow song of the sea. 

6 I wonder if she thinks of them, 

And how the old time seems, — 
If ever the pines of Ramoth wood 
Are sounding in her dreams. 

I see her face, I hear her voice ; 
10 Does she remember mine? 

And what to her is now the boy 
Who fed her father's kine? 

What cares she that the orioles build 
For other eyes than ours, — 
15 That other hands with nuts are fillea, 

And other laps with flowers? 

O playmate in the golden time! 

Our mossy seat is green, 
Its fringing violets blossom yet, 
2 o The old trees o'er it lean. 

The winds so sweet with birch and fern 
A sweeter memory blow ; 

And there in spring the veeries sing 
The song of long ago. 

25 And still the pines of Ramoth wood 

Are moaning like the sea, — 
The moaning of the sea of change 
Between myself and thee ! 






THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 259 

SNOW-BOUND 

(Selections) 

The sun that brief December day 

Rose cheerless over hills of gray, 

And, darkly circled, gave at noon 

A sadder light than waning moon. 

Slow tracing down the thickening sky 

Its mute and ominous prophecy, 

A portent seeming less than threat, 

It sank from sight before it set. 

A chill no coat, however stout, 

Of homespun stuff could quite shut out, 

A hard, dull bitterness of cold, 

That checked, mid-vein, the circling race 

Of life-blood in the sharpened face, 
The coming of the snow-storm told. 
The wind blew east ; we heard the roar 
Of Ocean on his wintry shore, 
And felt the strong pulse throbbing there 
Beat with low rhythm our inland air. 

Meanwhile we did our nightly chores,— 
Brought in the wood from out of doors, 
Littered the stalls, and from the mows 
Raked down the herd's-grass for the cows : 
Heard the horse whinnying for his corn ; 
And, sharply clashing horn on horn, 
Impatient down the stanchion rows 
The cattle shake their walnut bows ; 
While, peering from his early perch 
Upon the scaffold's pole of birch, 
The cock his crested helmet bent 
And down his querulous challenge sent. 



10 



260 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Unwarmed by any sunset light 
The gray day darkened into night, 
A night made hoary with the swarm 
And whirl-dance of the blinding storm, 
6 As zigzag wavering to and fro 

Crossed and recrossed the winged snow : 
And ere the early bedtime came 
The white drift piled the window-frame, 
And through the glass the clothes-line posts 
10 Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts. 

So all night long the storm roared on : 

The morning broke without a sun ; 

In tiny spherule traced with lines 

Of Nature's geometric signs, 
15 In starry flake and pellicle 

All day the hoary meteor fell; 

And, when the second morning shone, 

We looked upon a world unknown, 

On nothing we could call our own. 
20 Around the glistening wonder bent 

The blue walls of the firmament, 

No cloud above, no earth below, — 

A universe of sky and snow ! 

The old familiar sights of ours 
25 Took marvelous shapes ; strange domes and towers 

Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood, 

Or garden-wall, or belt of wood ; 

A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed, 

A fenceless drift what once was road ; 
30 The bridle-post an old man sat 

With loose-flung coat and high-cocked hat ; 

The well-curb had a Chinese roof ; 

And even the long sweep, high aloof, 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 261 

In- its slant splendor, seemed to tell 
Of Pisa's leaning miracle. 

A prompt, decisive man, no breath 
Our father wasted: "Boys, a path!" 

Well pleased (for when did farmer boy 

Count such a summons less than joy?), 

Our buskins on our feet we drew ; 

With mittened hands, and caps drawn low 
To guard our necks and ears from snow, 

We cut the solid whiteness through. 

And, where the drift was deepest, made 

A tunnel walled and overlaid 

With dazzling crystal : we had read 

Of rare Aladdin's wondrous cave, 

And to our own his name we gave, 

With many a wish the luck were ours 

To test his lamp's supernal powers. 

We reached the barn with merry din,^ 

And roused the prisoned brutes within. 

The old horse thrust his long head out, 

And grave with wonder gazed about; 

The cock his lusty greeting said, 

And forth his speckled harem led ; 

The oxen lashed their tails, and hooked, 

And mild reproach of hunger looked ; 

The horned patriarch of the sheep, 

Like Egypt's Amun roused from sleep, 

Shook his sage head with gesture mute, 

And emphasized with stamp of foot. 

All day the gusty north-wind bore 
The loosening drift its breath before; 
Low circling round its southern zone, 



10 



15 



20 



25 



30 



262 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

The sun through dazzling snow-mist shone. 
No church-bell lent its Christian tone 
To the savage air, no social smoke 
Curled over woods of snow-hung oak. 
5 A solitude made more intense 

By dreary-voiced elements, 
The shrieking of the mindless wind, 
The moaning tree-boughs swaying blind, 
And on the glass the unmeaning beat 

10 Of ghostly finger-tips of sleet. 

Beyond the circle of our hearth 
No welcome sound of toil or mirth 
Unbound the spell, and testified 
Of human life and thought outside. 

16 We minded that the sharpest ear 

The buried brooklet could not hear 
The music of whose liquid lip 
Had been to us companionship, 
And, in our lonely life, had grown 

2 To have an almost human tone. 

As night drew on, and, from the crest 
Of wooded knolls that ridged the west, 
The sun, a snow-blown traveler, sank 
From sight beneath the smothering bank 

2 6 We piled with care our nightly stack 

Of wood against the chimney-back, — 
The oaken log, green, huge, and thick, 
And on its top the stout backstick ; 
The knotty forestick laid apart, 

30 And filled between with curious art 

The ragged brush ; then, hovering near. 
We watched the first red blaze appear, 
Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam 



10 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 263 

On whitewashed wall and sagging beam, 
Until the old, rude-furnished room 
Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom ; 
While radiant with a mimic flame 
Outside the sparkling drift became, 
And through the bare-boughed lilac-tree 
Our own warm hearth seemed blazing free. 
The crane and pendent trammels showed, 
The Turk's heads on the andirons glowed ; 
While childish fancy, prompt to tell 
The meaning of the miracle, 
Whispered the old rhyme : "Under the tree 
When fire outdoors burns merrily, 
There the witches are making tea" 

The moon above the eastern wood 1 5 

Shone at its full ; the hill-range stood 

Transfigured in the silver flood, 

Its blown snows flashing cold and keen, 

Dead white, save where some sharp ravine 

Took shadow, or the sombre green 2 

Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black 

Against the whiteness of their back. 

For such a world and such a night 

Most fitting that unwarming light, 

Which only seemed where'er it fell 2 5 

To make the coldness visible. 

Shut in from all the world without, 

We sat the clean-winged hearth about, 

Content to let the north-wind roar 

In baffled rage at pane and door, 30 

While the red logs before us beat 

The frost-line back with tropic heat; 



264 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

And ever, when a louder blast 
Shook beam and rafter as it passed, 
The merrier up its roaring draught 
The great throat of the chimney laughed ; 
5 The house-dog on his paws outspread 

Laid to the fire his drowsy head, 
The cat's dark silhouette on the wall 
A couchant tiger's seemed to fall ; 
And, for the winter fireside meet, 
10 Between the andiron's straddling feet, 

The mug of cider simmered slow, 
The apples sputtered in a row, 
And, close at hand, the basket stood 
With nuts from brown October's wood. 

1 5 What matter how the night behaved ? 

What matter how the north-wind raved ? 
Blow high, blow low, not all its snow 
Could quench our hearth-fire's ruddy glow. 

* * * * * 

20 We sped the time with stories old, 

Wrought puzzles out, and riddles told, 
Or stammered from our school-book lore 
'The chief of Gambia's golden shore." 
How often since, when all the land 

2 5 Was clay in Slavery's shaping hand, 

As if a far-blown trumpet starred 

* * * * * 

"Does not the voice of reason cry, 

Claim the first right which Nature gave, 
30 From the red scourge of bondage fly, 

Nor design to live a burdened slave!" 
Our father rode again his ride 
On Memphremagog's wooded side; 






THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 265 

Sat down again to moose and samp 

In trapper's hut and Indian camp; 

Lived o'er the old idyllic ease 

Beneath St. Francois' hemlock-trees; 

Again for him the moonlight shone 6 

On Norman cap and bodiced zone ; 

Again he heard. the violin play 

Which led the village dance away, 

And mingled in its merry whirl 

The grandam and the laughing girl. 1 

Or, nearer home, our steps he led 

Where Salisbury's level marshes spread 

Mile-wide as flies the laden bee ; 

Where merry mowers, hale and strong, 
Swept, scythe on scythe, their swaths along 15 

The low green prairies of the sea. 
We shared the fishing off Boar's Head, 

And round the rocky Isles of Shoals 

The hake-broil on the driftwood coals; 
The chowder on the sand-beach made, 2 

Dipped by the hungry, steaming hot, 
With spoons of clam-shell from the pot. 
We heard the tales of witchcraft old, 
And dream and sign and marvel told 

To sleepy listeners as they lay 25 

Stretched idly on the salted hay, 
Adrift along the winding shores, 

When favoring breezes designed to blow 

The square sail of the gundelow, 
And idle lay the useless oars. 3 

Our mother, while she turned her wheel 
Or run the new-knit stocking heel, 
Told how the Indian hordes came down 



266 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

At midnight on Cochecho town, 
And how her own great-uncle bore 
His cruel scalp-mark to fourscore. 
Recalling, in her fitting phrase, 
5 So rich and picturesque and free 

(The common unrhymed poetry 
Of simple life and country ways), 
The story of her early days, — 
She made us welcome to her home ; 

10 Old hearths grew wide to give us room; 

We stole with her a frightened look 
At the gray wizard's conjuring-book, 
The fame whereof went far and wide 
Through all the simple country-side; 

1 5 We heard the hawks at twilight play, 

The boat-horn on Piscataqua, 
The loon's weird laughter far away ; 
We fished her little trout-brook, knew 
What flowers in wood and meadow grew, 

2 What sunny hillsides autumn-brown 

She climbed to shake the ripe nuts down, 
Saw where in sheltered cove and bay 
The duck's black squadron anchored lay, 
And heard the wild-geese calling loud 

25 Beneath the gray November cloud. 

Then, haply, with a look more grave, 
And soberer tone, some tale she gave 
From painful Sewel's ancient tome, 
Beloved in every Quaker home, 
30 Of faith fire-winged by martyrdom, 

Or Chalkley's Journal, old and quaint, 
Gentlest of skippers, rare sea-saint ! 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 267 

Our uncle, innocent of books, 

Was rich in lore of fields and brooks, 

The ancient teachers never dumb 

Of Nature's unhoused lyceum. 

In moons and tides and weather wise, 5 

He read the clouds as prophecies, 

And foul or fair could well divine, 

By many an occult hint and sign, 

Holding the cunning-warded keys 

To all the woodcraft mysteries ; 1 ° 

Himself to Nature's heart so near 

That all her voices in his ear 

Of beast or bird had meanings clear, 

Like Apollonius of old, 

Who knew the tales the sparrows told, 15 

Or Hermes, who interpreted 

What the sage cranes of Nilus said ; 

A simple, guileless, childlike man, 

Content to live where life began ; 

Strong only on his native grounds, 2 

The little world of sights and sounds 

Whose girdle was the parish bounds, 

Whereof his fondly partial pride 

The common features magnified, 

As Surrey hills to mountains grew 2 5 

In White of Selborne's loving view, — 

He told how teal and loon he shot, 

And how the eagle's eggs he got, 

The feats on pond and river done, 

The prodigies of rod and gun ; 3 

Till, warming with the tales he told, 

Forgotten was the outside cold, 

The bitter wind unheeded blew, 



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268 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

From ripening corn the pigeons flew, 

The partridge drummed i' the wood, the mink 

Went fishing down the river-brink. 

In fields with bean or clover gay, 

The woodchuck, like a hermit gray, 

Peered from the doorway of his cell ; 
The muskrat plied the mason's trade, 
And tier by tier his mud-walls laid ; 
And from the shagbark overhead 

The grizzled squirrel dropped his shell. 



Next, the dear aunt, whose smile of cheer 
And voice in dreams I see and hear, — 
The sweetest woman ever Fate 
Perverse denied a household mate, 

15 Who, lonely, homeless, not the less 

Found peace in love's unselfishness, 
And welcome whereso'er she went, 
A calm and gracious element, 
Whose presence seemed the sweet income 

20 And womanly atmosphere of home, — 

Called up her girlhood memories, 
The huskings and the apple-bees, 
The sleigh-rides and the summer sails, 
Weaving through all the poor details 

25 And homespun warp of circumstance 

A golden woof-thread of romance. 
For well she kept her genial mood 
And simple faith of maidenhood; 
Before her still a cloud-land lay, 

30 The mirage loomed across her way; 

The morning dew, that dries so soon 
With others, glistened at her noon ; 
Through years of toil and soil and care, 






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THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 269 

From glossy tress to thin gray hair, 

All unprofaned she held apart 

The virgin fancies of the heart. 

Be shame to him of woman born 

Who hath for such but thought of scorn. 

There, too, our elder sister plied 
Her evening task the stand beside; 
A full, rich nature, free to trust, 
Truthful and almost sternly just, 
Impulsive, earnest, prompt to act, 
And make her generous thought a fact, 
Keeping with many a light disguise 
The secret of self-sacrifice. 
O heart sore-tried ! thou hast the best 
That Heaven itself could give thee,— rest, 
Rest from all bitter thoughts and things! 

How many a poor one's blessing went 

With thee beneath the low green tent 
Whose curtain never outward swings ! 

As one who held herself a part 20 

Of all she saw, and let her heart 

Against the household bosom lean, 
Upon the motley-braided mat 
Our youngest and our dearest sat, 
Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes 

Now bathed within the fadeless green 
And holy peace of Paradise. 
Oh, looking from some heavenly hill, 

Or from the shade ©f saintly palms, 

Or silver reach of river calms, 
Do those large eyes behold me still ? 
With me one little year ago : — 



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270 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

The chill weight of the winter snow 

For months upon her grave has lain; 
And now, when summer south-winds blow 

And brier and harebell bloom again, 
j. I tread the pleasant paths we trod, 

I see the violet-sprinkled sod, 
Whereon she leaned, too frail and weak 
The hillside flowers she loved to seek, 
Yet following me where'er I went 
2 With dark eyes full of love's content. 

The birds are glad ; the brier-rose fills 
The air with sweetness; all the hills 
Stretch green to June's unclouded sky ; 
But still I wait with ear and eye 
j 5 For something gone which should be nigh, 

A loss in all familiar things, 
In flower that blooms, and bird that sings. 
And yet, dear heart ! remembering thee, 

Am I not richer than of old ? 
Safe in thy immortality, 

What change can reach the wealth I hold? 

What chance can mar the pearl and gold 
Thy love hath left in trust with me ? 
And while in life's late afternoon, 
2 K Where cool and long the shadows grow, 

I walk to meet the night that soon 

Shall shape and shadow overflow, 
I cannot feel that thou art far, 
Since near at need the angels are, 
30 And when the sunset gates unbar, 

Shall I not see thee waiting stand, 
And, white against the evening star, 

The welcome of thy beckoning hand ?■ 



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THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 271 

Brisk wielder of the birch and rule, 

The master of the district school 

Held at the fire his favored place ; 

Its warm glow lit a laughing face 

Fresh-hued and fair, where scarce appeared 5 

The uncertain prophecy of beard. 

He teased the mitten-blinded cat, 

Played cross-pins on my uncle's hat, 

Sang songs, and told us what befalls 

In classic Dartmouth's college halls. 10 

Born the wild Northern hills among, 

From whence his yeoman father wrung 

By patient toil subsistence scant, 

Not competence and yet not want, 

He early gained the power to pay 1 5 

His cheerful, self-reliant way; 

Could doff at ease his scholar's gown 

To peddle wares from town to town ; 

Or through the long vacation's reach 

In lonely lowland districts teach, 2 

Where all the droll experience found 

At stranger hearths in boarding round, 

The moonlit skater's keen delight, 

The sleigh-drive through the frosty night, 

The rustic party, with its rough 2 5 

Accompaniment of blind-man's-buff, 

And whirling plate, and forfeits paid, 

His winter task a pastime made. 

Happy the snow-locked homes wherein 

He tuned his merry violin, 3 

Or played the athlete in the barn, 

Or held the good dame's winding yarn, 

Or mirth-provoking versions told 

Of classic legends rare and old, 



272 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Wherein the scenes of Greece and Rome 

Had all the commonplace of home, 

And little seemed at best the odds 

'Twixt Yankee pedlers and old gods; 

5 Where Pindus-born Arachthus took 

The guise of any grist-mill brook, 

And dread Olympus at his will 

Became a huckleberry hill. 
***** 

1 ° Another guest that winter night 

Flashed back from lustrous eyes the light. 
Unmarked by time, and yet not young, 
The honeyed music of her tongue 
And words of meekness scarcely told 

15 A nature passionate and bold, 

Strong, self-concentred, spurning guide, 
Its milder features dwarfed beside 
Her unbent will's majestic pride. 
She sat among us, at the best 

20 A not unf eared, half-welcome guest, 

Rebuking with her cultured phrase 
Our homeliness of words and ways. 
A certain pard-like, treacherous grace 

Swayed the lithe limbs and drooped the lash, 

2 5 Lent the white teeth their dazzling flash ; 

And under low brows, black with night ; 

Rayed out at times a dangerous light; 
The sharp heat-lightnings of her face 
Presaging ill to him whom Fate 
30 Condemned to share her love or hate. 

A woman tropical, intense 

In thought and act, in soul and sense, 

She blended in a like degree 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 273 

The vixen and the devotee, 

Revealing with each freak or feint 
The temper of Petruchio's Kate, 

The raptures of Siena's saint. 
Her tapering hand and rounded wrist 5 

Had facile power to form a fist ; 
The warm, dark languish of her eyes 
Was never safe from wrath's surprise. 
Brows saintly calm and lips devout 

Knew every change of scowl and pout; 10 

And the sweet voice had notes more high 
And shrill for social battle-cry. 

Since then what old cathedral town 

Has missed her pilgrim staff and gown, 

What convent-gate has held its lock 1 5 

Against the challenge of her knock ! 

Through Smyrna's plague-hushed thoroughfares, 

Up sea-set Malta's rocky stairs, 

Gray olive slopes of hills that hem 

Thy tombs and shrines, Jerusalem, 2 

Or startling on her desert throne 

The crazy Queen of Lebanon 

With claims fantastic as her own, 

Her tireless feet have held their way ; 

And still, unrestf ul, bowed, and gray, 2 5 

She watches under Eastern skies, 

With hope each day renewed and fresh, 

The Lord's quick coming in the flesh, 
Whereof she dreams and prophesies ! 

Where'er her troubled path may be, 3 ° 

The Lord's sweet pity with her go ! 



274 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

The outward wayward life we see, 

The hidden springs we may not know. 

* * * * 

At last the great logs, crumbling low, 
5 Sent out a dull and duller glow, 

The bull's-eye watch that hung in view, 
Ticking its weary circuit through, 
Pointed with mutely-warning sign 
Its black hand to the hour of nine. 

1 ° That sign the pleasant circle broke : 

My uncle ceased his pipe to smoke, 
Knocked from its bowl the refuse gray, 
And laid it tenderly away, 
Then roused himself to safely cover 

15 The dull red brand with ashes over. 

And while, with care, our mother laid 
The work aside, her steps she stayed 
One moment, seeking to express 
Her grateful sense of happiness 

20 For food and shelter, warmth and health, 

And love's contentment more than wealth, 
With simple wishes (not the weak, 
Vain prayers which no fulfilment seek, 
But such as warm the generous heart, 

2 5 O'er-prompt to do with Heaven its part) 

That none might lack, that bitter night, 
For bread and clothing, warmth and light 

Within our beds awhile we heard 
The wind that round the gables roared, 
30 With now and then a ruder shock, 

Which made our very bedsteads rock. 
We heard the loosened clapboards tost. 
The board-nails snapping in the frost ; 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 275 

And on us, through the unplastered wall. 

Felt the light sifted snow-flakes fall, 

But sleep stole on, as sleep will do 

When hearts are light and life is new ; 

Faint and more faint the murmurs grew, 5 

Till in the summer-land of dreams 

They softened to the sound of streams, 

Low stir of leaves, and dip of oars, 

And lapsing waves on quiet shores. 

Next morn we wakened with the shout 10 

Of merry voices high and clear ; 

And saw the teamsters drawing near 
To break the drifted highways out. 
Down the long hillside treading slow 

We saw the half-buried oxen go, 15 

Shaking the snow from heads uptost, 
Their straining nostrils white with frost. 
Before our door the straggling train 
Drew up, an added team to gain. 
The elders threshed their hands a-cold, 20 

Passed, with the cider-mug, their jokes 

From lip to lip ; the younger folks 
Down the loose snow-banks, wrestling, rolled, 
Then toiled again the cavalcade 

• O'er windy hill, through clogged ravine, 2 5 

And woodland paths that wound between 
Low drooping pine-boughs winter-weighed. 
From every barn a team afoot, 
At every house a new recruit, 

Where, drawn by Nature's subtlest law, 30 

Haply the watchful young men saw 
Sweet doorway pictures of the curls 
And curious eyes of merry girls, 



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276 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Lifting their hands in mock defence 
Against the snow-balls' compliments, 
And reading in each missive tost 
The charm with Eden never lost. 

We heard once more the sleigh-bells' sound ; 

And, following where the teamsters led, 
The wise old Doctor went his round, 
Just pausing at our door to say 
In the brief autocratic way 
Of one who, prompt at Duty's call, 
Was free to urge her claim on all, 

That some poor neighbor sick abed 
At night our mother's aid would need. 
For, one in generous thought and deed, 
1 5 What mattered in the sufferer's sight 

The Quaker matron's inward light, 
The Doctor's mail of Calvin's creed? 
All hearts confess the saints elect 

Who, twain in faith, in love agree, 
2 And melt not in an acid sect 

The Christian pearl of charity ! 

So days went on : a week had passed 

Since the great world was heard from last. 

The Almanac we studied o'er, 
2 5 Read and reread our little store 

Of books and pamphlets, scarce a score; 

One harmless novel, mostly hid 

From younger eyes, a book forbid, 

And poetry (or good or bad, 
30 A single book was all we had), 

Where Ellwood's meek, drab-skirted Muse, 
A stranger to the heathen Nine, 



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THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 277 

Sang, with a somewhat nasal whine, 
The wars of David and the Jews. 
At last the floundering carrier bore 
The village paper to our door. 
Lo ! broadening outward as we read, 
To warmer zones the horizon spread; 
In panoramic length unrolled 
We saw the marvels that it told. 
Before us passed the painted Creeks, 

And daft McGregor on his raids 

In Costa Rica's everglades. 

And up Taygetus winding slow 
Rode Ypsilanti's Mainote Greeks, 

A Turk's head at each saddle bow! 
Welcome to us its week old news, 15 

Its corner for the rustic Muse, 

Its monthly gauge of snow and rain, 
Its record, mingling in a breath 
The wedding knell and dirge of death ; 

Jest, anecdote, and love-lorn tale, 20 

The latest culprit sent to jail ; 
Its hue and cry of stolen and lost, 
Its vendue sales and goods at cost, 

And traffic calling loud for gain. 
We felt the stir of hall and street, 25 

The pulse of life that round us beat; 
The chill embargo of the snow 
Was melted in the genial glow ; 
Wide swung again our ice-locked door, 
And all the world was ours once more ! 30 

Clasp, Angel of the backward look 
And folded wings of ashen gray 
And voice of echoes far away, 



278 



READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 



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The brazen covers of thy book ; 

The weird palimpsest old and vast, 

Wherein thou hid'st the spectral past ; 

Where, closely mingling, pale and glow 

The characters of joy and woe; 

The monographs of outlived years, 

Or smile-illumed or dim with tears, 

Green hills of life that slope to death, 
And haunts of home, whose vistaed trees 
Shade off to mournful cypresses 

With the white amaranths underneath. 

Even while I look, I can but heed 
The restless sands' incessant fall, 

Importunate hours that hours succeed, 

Each clamorous with its own sharp need, 
And duty keeping pace with all. 

Shut down and clasp the heavy lids ; 

I hear again the voice that bids 

The dreamer leave his dream midway 
For larger hopes and graver fears : 
Life greatens in these later years, 

The century's aloe flowers to-day ! 



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30 



Yet, haply, in some lull of life, 

Some Truce of God which breaks its strife, 

The worldling's eyes shall gather dew, 

Dreaming in throngful city ways 
Of winter joys his boyhood knew ; 
And dear and early friends — the few 
Who yet remain — shall pause to view 

These Flemish pictures of old days ; 
Sit with me by the homestead hearth, 
And stretch the hands of memory forth 

To warm them at the wood-fire's blaze ! 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 279 

And thanks untraced to lips unknown 
Shall greet me like the odors blown 
From unseen meadows newly mown, 
Or lilies floating in some pond, 
Wood-fringed, the wayside gaze beyond ; 
The traveler owns the grateful sense 
Of sweetness near, he knows not whence, 
And, pausing, takes with forehead bare 
The benediction of the air. 

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
Born in Cambridge, Mass., 1809; died in Boston, October 7, 1894 
OLD IRONSIDES 
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! 10 

Long has it waved on high, 
And many an eye has danced to see 

That banner in the sky ; 
Beneath it rung the battle shout, 

And burst the cannon's roar ; — 15 

The meteor of the ocean air 

Shall sweep the clouds no more. 

Her decks, once red with heroes' blood, 

Where knelt the vanquished foe, 
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, 20 

And waves were white below, 
No more shall feel the victor's tread, 

Or know the conquered knee ; — 
The harpies of the shore shall pluck 

The eagle of the sea ! 

Oh, better that her shattered hulk 
Should sink beneath the wave ; 
Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 



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280 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

And there should be her grave; 
Nail to the mast her holy flag, 

Set every threadbare sail, 
And give her to the god of storms, 
5 The lightning and the gale i 

THE LAST LEAF 

I saw him once before, 
As he passed by the door, 

And again 
The pavement stones resound, 
10 As he totters o'er the ground 

With his cane. 

They say that in his prime, 
Ere the pruning-knife of Time 

Cut him down, 
1 5 Not a better man was found 

By the Crier on his round 

Through the town. 

But now he walks the streets, 
And he looks at all he meets 
2 o Sad and wan, 

And he shakes his feeble head, 
That it seems as if he said, 
"They are gone " 

The mossy marbles rest 
2 5 On the lips that he has prest 

' In their bloom, 

And the names he loved to hear 
Have been carved for many a year 
On the tomb. 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 281 

My grandmamma has said — 
Poor old lady, she is dead 

Long ago — 
That he had a Roman nose, 
And his cheek was like a rose 5 

In the snow ; 

But now his nose is thin, 
And it rests upon his chin 

Like a staff, 
And a crook is in his back, 1° 

And a melancholy crack 

In his laugh. 

I know it is a sin 
For me to sit and grin 

At him here; 15 

But the old three-cornered hat, 
And the breeches, and all that, 

Are so queer ! 

And if I should live to be 

The last leaf upon the tree 2 

In the spring, 
Let them smile, as I do now, 
At the old forsaken bough 

Where I cling. 

SHE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE; OR, THE WONDERFUL 
"ONE-HOSS SHAY" 

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, 25 

That was built in such a logical way 

It ran a hundred years to a day, 

And then, of a sudden, it — ah, but stay, 

I'll tell you what happened without delay, 



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282 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Scaring the parson into fits, 
Frightening people out of their wits, — 
Have you ever heard of that, I say ? 

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. 
Georgius Secundus was then alive, — 
Snuffy old drone from the German hive ! 
That was the year when Lisbon-town 
Saw the earth open and gulp her down, 
And Braddock's army was done so brown, 
Left without a scalp to its crown. 
It was on the terrible Earthquake-day 
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay. 

Now in building of chaises, I tell you what, 

There is always somewhere a weakest spot, — 

In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, 

In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, 

In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, — lurking still, 

Find it somewhere you must and will, — 

Above or below, or within or without, — 

And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, 

That a chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out. 

But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do, 

With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou") 

He would build one shay to beat the taown 

'N' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun' ; 

It should be so built that it couldn' break daown : 

"Fur," said the Deacon, " 'tis mighty plain 

Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain ; 

'N' the way f fix it, uz I maintain, 

Is only jest 
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest. ' 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 283 

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk 

Where he could find the strongest oak, 

That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke, — 

That was for spokes and floor and sills ; 

He sent for lancewood to make the thills ; 5 

The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees ; 

The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese, 

But lasts like iron for things like these ; 

The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,' , — 

Last of its timber, — they couldn't sell 'em, 1 

Never an axe had seen their chips, 

And the wedges flew from between their lips, 

Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips ; 

Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, 

Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, 1 5 

Steel of the finest, bright and blue ; 

Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; 

Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide 

Found in the pit when the tanner died. 

That was the way he "put her through." 

"There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!" 

Do ! I tell you, I rather guess 
She was a wonder, and nothing less ! 
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, 
Deacon and deaconess dropped away, 
Children and grandchildren — where were they? 
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay 
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake day ! 

EIGHTEEN HUNDRED;— it came and found 
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. 
Eighteen hundred increased by ten; — 
"Hahnsum kerridge," they called it then. 



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284 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Eighteen hundred and twenty came; — 
Running as usual ; much the same. 
Thirty and forty at last arrive, 
And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE. 

6 Little of all we value here 

Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year 
Without both feeling and looking queer. 
In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth, 
So far as I know, but a tree and truth. 
10 (This is a moral that runs at large; 

Take it. — You're welcome. — No extra charge.) 

FIRST of NOVEMBER,— the Earthquake day,- 
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, 
A general flavor of mild decay, 
15 But nothing local, as one may say. 

There couldn't be, — for the Deacon's art 

Had made it so like in every part 

That there wasn't a chance for one to start. 

For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, 
20 And the floor was just as strong as the sills, 

And the panels just as strong as the floor, 
And the whipple-tree neither less nor more, 
And the back crossbar as strong as the fore, 
And spring and axle and hub encore. 
2 5^ And yet, as a zvhole, it is past a doubt 

In another hour it will be worn out! 

First of November, 'Fifty-five ! 
This morning the parson takes a drive. 
Now, small boys, get out of the way ! 
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 285 

Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. 
"Huddup I" said the parson. — Off went tney. 
The parson was working his Sunday's text, — 
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed 
At what the — Moses — was coming next. 
All at once the horse stood still, 
Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill. 
First a shiver, and then a thrill, 
Then something decidedly like a spill, — 
And the parson was sitting upon a rock, 
At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock, — 
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock ! 
What do you think the parson found, 
When he got up and stared around ? 
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, 
As if it had been to the mill and ground ! 
You see, of course, if you're not a dunce, 
How it went to pieces all at once, — 
All at on^e, and nothing first, — 
Just as bubbles do when they burst. 

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. 
Logic is logic. That's all I say. 

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS 

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, 

Sails the unshadowed main, — 

The venturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings 
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, 

And coral reefs lie bare, 
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. 



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286 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; 

Wrecked is the ship of pearl ! 

And every chambered cell, 
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, 
5 As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, 

Before thee lies revealed, — 
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed ! 

Year after year beheld the silent toil 
That spread his lustrous coil; 

1 o Still, as the spiral grew, 

He left the past year's dwelling for the new, 
Stole with soft step its shining archway through, 

Built up its idle door, 
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. 

15 Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, 
Child of the wandering sea, 
Cast from her lap, forlorn! 
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 
Than ever Triton, blew from wreathed horn ! 

2 • While on my ear it rings, 

Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings : — 

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, 

As the swift seasons roll ! 

Leave thy low-vaulted past ! 
2 5 Let each new temple, nobler than the last, 

Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, 

Till thou at length are free, 
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea ! 

A SUN-DAY HYMN 
Lord of all being ! throned afar, 
30 Thy glory flames from sun and star; 

Centre and soul of every sphere, 
Yet to each loving heart how near ! 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 287 

Sun of our life, thy quickening ray 
Sheds on our path the glow of day ; 
Star of our hope, thy softened light 
Cheers the long watches of the night. 

Our midnight is thy smile withdrawn ; 5 

Our noontide is thy gracious dawn ; 
Our rainbow arch thy mercy's sign ; 
All, save the clouds of sin, are thine ! 

Lord of all life, below, above, 

Whose light is truth, whose warmth is love, 10 

Before thy ever-blazing throne 

We ask no lustre of our own. 

Grant us thy truth to make us free, 

And kindling hearts that burn for thee, 

Till all thy living altars claim 15 

One holy light, one heavenly flame ! 

THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE 
(Selection) 

Every person's feelings have a front-door and a side-door by 
which they may be entered. The front-door is on the street. 
Some keep it always open; some keep it latched; some, locked; 
some, bolted, — with a chain that will let you peep in, but not get 2 
in, — and some nail it up, so that nothing can pass its threshold. 
This front-door leads into a passage which opens into an ante- 
room, and this into the interior apartments. The side-door opens 
at once into the sacred chambers. 

There is almost always at least one key to this side-door. 25 
This is carried for years hidden in a mother's bosom. Fathers, 
brothers, sisters, and friends, often, but by no means so univers- 
ally, have duplicates of it. The wedding-ring conveys a right to 
one ; alas, if none is given with it ! 



288 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

If nature or accident has put one of these keys into the hands 
of a person who has the torturing instinct, I can only solemnly 
pronounce the words that Justice utters over its doomed victim — 
The Lord have mercy on your soul! You will probably go mad 
5 within a reasonable time, — or, if you are a man, run off and die 
with your head on a curb-stone, in Melbourne or San Francisco, — 
or, if you are a woman, quarrel and break your heart, or turn 
into a pale, jointed petrifaction that moves about as if it were 
alive, or play some real life-tragedy or other. 

Be very careful to whom you trust one of these keys of the 
side-door. The fact of possessing one renders those even who 
are dear to you very terrible at times. You can keep the world 
out from your front-door, or receive visitors only when you are 
ready for them; but those of your own flesh and blood, or of 
15 certain grades of intimacy, can come in at the side-door, if they 
will, at any hour and in any mood. Some of them have a scale 
of your whole nervous system and can play all the gamut of your 
sensibilities in semitones, touching the naked nerve-pulps as a 
pianist strikes the keys of his instrument. I am satisfied that 
2 there are as great masters of this nerve-playing as Vieuxtemps 
or Thalberg in their line of performance. Married life is the 
school in which the most accomplished artists in this department 
are found. A delicate woman is the best instrument; she has 
such a magnificent compass of sensibilities! From the deep 

2 5 inward moan which follows pressure on the great nerves of right 

to the sharp cry, as the filaments of taste are struck with a crash- 
ing sweep, is a range which no other instrument possesses. A 
few exercises on it daily at home fit a man wonderfully for his 
habitual labors, and refresh him immensely as he returns from 

3 them. No stranger can get a great many notes of torture out 

of a human soul ; it takes one that knows it well, — parent, child, 
brother, sister, intimate. Be very careful to whom you give a 
side-door key ; too many have them already. 

You remember the old story of the tender-hearted man, who 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 289 

placed a frozen viper in his bosom and was stung by it when it 
became thawed? If we take a cold-blooded creature into our 
bosom, better that it should sting us and we should die than that 
its chill should slowly steal into our hearts; warm it we never 
can ! I have seen faces of women that were fair to look upon, 5 
yet one could see that the icicles were forming round these 
women's hearts. I knew what freezing image lay on the white 
breasts beneath the laces ! 

A very simple intellectual mechanism answers the necessities 
of friendship and even of the most intimate relations of life. If 10 
a watch tells us the hour and the minute, we can be content to 
carry it about with us for a life-time, though it has no second- 
hand and is not a repeater, nor a musical watch, — though it is not 
enameled nor jeweled, — in short, though it has little beyond the 
wheels required for a trustworthy instrument, added to a good 15 
face and a pair of useful hands. The more wheels there are in 
a watch or a brain, the more trouble they are to take care of. The 
movements of exaltation which belong to genius are egotistic by 
their very nature. A calm, clear mind, not subject to the spasms 
and crises which are so often met with in creative or intensely 20 
perceptive natures, is the best basis for love or friendship. 
Observe, I am talking about minds. I won't say, the more 
intellect, the less capacity for loving ; for that would do wrong to 
the understanding and reason; but, on the other hand, that the 
brain often runs away with the heart's best blood, which gives 25 
the world a few pages of wisdom or sentiment or poetry instead 
of making one other heart happy, I have no question. 

If one's intimate in love or friendship cannot or does not share 
all one's intellectual tastes or pursuits, that is a small matter. 
Intellectual companions can be found easily in men and books. 30 
After all, if we think of it, most of the world's loves and friend- 
ships have been between people that could not read nor spell. 

But to radiate the heat of the affections into a clod, which 
absorbs all that is poured into it but never warms beneath the 



290 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

sunshine of smiles or the pressure of hand or lip, — this is the 
great martyrdom of sensitive beings, most of all in that perpetual 
auto da fe where young womanhood is the sacrifice. 

You noticed, perhaps, what I just said about the loves and 
5 friendships of illiterate persons, — that is, of the human race, with 
a few exceptions here and there. I like books; I was born and 
bred among them and have the easy feeling, when I get into their 
presence, that a stable-boy has among horses. I don't think I 
undervalue them either as companions or as instructors. But I 

1 ° can't help remembering that the world's great men have not com- 
monly been great scholars, nor its great scholars great men. The 
Hebrew patriarchs had small libraries, I think, if any; yet they 
represent to our imaginations a very complete idea of manhood, 
and, I think, if we could ask in Abraham to dine with us men of 

!6 letters next Saturday, we should feel honored by his company. 

What I wanted to say about books is this : that there are times 
in which every active mind feels itself above any and all human 
books. 

I think a man must have a good opinion of himself, sir, said 

20 the divinity-student, who should feel himself above Shakespeare 
at any time. 

My young friend, I replied, the man who is never conscious 
of a state of feeling or of intellectual effort entirely beyond 
expression by any form of words whatsoever is a mere creature 

26 of language. I can hardly believe there are any such men. Why, 
think for a moment of the power of music. The nerves that 
make us alive to it spread out (so the Professor tells me) in the 
most sensitive region of the marrow just where it is widening to 
run upward into the hemispheres. It has its seat in the region 

30 of sense rather than of thought. Yet it produces a continuous 
and, as it were, logical sequence of emotional and intellectual 
changes; but how different from trains of thought proper! how 
entirely beyond the reach of symbols ! Think of human passions 
as compared with all phrases ! Did you ever hear of a man's 



THE NEW ENGLAND WRITERS 291 

growing lean by the reading of "Romeo and Juliet," or blowing 
his brains out because Desdemona was maligned? There are a 
good many symbols, even, that are more expressive than words. 
I remember a young wife who had to part with her husband for 
a time. She did not write a mournful poem; indeed, she was a 
silent person and perhaps hardly said a word about it; but she 
quietly turned of a deep orange color with jaundice. A great 
many people in this world have but one form of rhetoric for 
their profoundest experiences, — namely, to waste away and die. 
When a man can read, his paroxysm of feeling is passing. When 
he can read, his thought has slackened its hold. You talk about 
reading Shakespeare, using him as an expression for the highest 
intellect, and you wonder that any common person should be so 
presumptuous as to suppose his thought can rise above the text 
which lies before him. But think a moment. A child's reading 
of Shakespeare is one thing, and Coleridge's or Schlegel's reading 
of him is another. The saturation-point of each mind differs 
from that of every other. But I think it is as true for the small 
mind which can only take up a little as for the great one which 
takes up much that the suggested trains of thought and feeling 
ought always to rise above — not the author, but the reader's 
mental version of the author, whoever he may be. 

I think most readers of Shakespeare sometimes find them- 
selves thrown into exalted mental conditions like those produced 
by music. Then they may drop the book, to pass at once into the 
region of thought without words. We may happen to be very 
dull folks, you and I, and probably are, unless there is some 
particular reason to suppose the contrary. But we get glimpses 
now and then of a sphere of spiritual possibilities, where we, dull 
as we are now, may sail in vast circles round the largest compass 
of earthly intelligences. 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 



10 



15 



20 



A SHEAF OF FAMOUS LYRICS 

THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER 

Francis Scott Key (1779-1843) 
O ! say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, 

What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming— 
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the clouds of the 
fight, 

O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming? 
And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air, 
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there ; 
O ! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ? 

On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep, 
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, 

What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, 
As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses? 

Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, 

In full glory reflected now shines on the stream ; 

'Tis the star-spangled banner ; O long may it wave 

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! 

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore 

That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion 
A home and a country should leave us no more? 

Their blood has washed out their foul footstep's pollution. 
No refuge could save the hireling and slave 
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave ; 
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 

(292) 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 293 

O ! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand 

Between their loved homes and the war's desolation ! 

Blessed with victory and peace, may the Heav'n-rescued land 
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation ! 

Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just, 6 

And this be our motto — "In God is our trust !" 

And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 

MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE 
Richard Henry Wilde (1789-1847) 

My life is like the summer rose, 

That opens to the morning sky, 10 

But, ere the shades of evening close, 

Is scattered on the ground — to die ! 
Yet on the rose's humble bed 
The sweetest dews of night are shed, 
As if she wept the waste to see — 
But none shall weep a tear for me ! 



My life is like the prints which feet 
Have left on Tampa's desert strand ; 

Soon as the rising tide shall beat, 
All trace will vanish from the sand ; 



15 



My life is like the autumn leaf 

That trembles in the moon's pale ray : 
Its hold is frail — its date is brief, 

Restless — and soon to pass away ! 
Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, 
The parent tree will mourn its shade, 
The winds bewail the leafless tree — 
But none shall breathe a sigh for me ! 



25 



294 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Yet, as if grieving to efface 

All vestige of the human race, 

On that lone shore loud moans the sea — 

But none, alas ! shall mourn for me ! 

A HEALTH 

Edward Coate Pinkney (1802-1828) 

5 I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone, 
A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon ; 
To whom the better elements and kindly stars have given 
A form so fair that, like the air, 'tis less of earth than heaven. 

Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning birds, 
1 And something more than melody dwells ever in her words ; 
The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips each flows 
As one may see the burdened bee forth issue from the rose. 

Affections are as thoughts to her, the measures of her hours; 
Her feelings have the f ragrancy, the freshness of young flowers ; 
15 And lovely passions, changing oft, so fill her she appears 
The image of themselves by turns — the idol of past years ! 

Of her bright face one glance will trace a picture on the brain, 
And of her voice in echoing hearts a sound must long remain ; 
But memory, such . , mine of her, so very much endears, 
20 When death is nigh my latest sigh will not be life's, but hers. 

I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone, 
A woman, of her gentle sex. the seeming paragon — 
Her health ! and would on earth there stood some more of such a 
frame, 
2 5 That life might be all poetry, and weariness a name. 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 295 

RESIGNATION 

St. George Tucker (1752-1828) 

Days of my youth, 

Ye have glided away ; 
Hairs of my youth, 

Ye are frosted and gray , 
Eyes of my youth, 

Your keen sight is no more ; 
Cheeks of my youth, 

Ye are furrowed all o'er ; 
Strength of my youth, 

All your vigor is gone ; * ° 

Thoughts of my youth, 

Your gay visions are flown. 

Days of my youth, 

I wish not your recall ; 
Hairs of my youth, 1 5 

I'm content ye should fall ; 
Eyes of my youth, 

You much evil have seen ; 
Cheeks of my youth, 

Bathed in tears have you been : 2 ° 

Thoughts of my youth, 

You have led me astray ; 
Strength of my youth, 

Why lament your decay ? 

Days of my age, 2 5 

Ye will shortly be past ; 
Pains of my age, 

Yet awhile ye can last ; 



296 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Joys of my age, 

In true wisdom delight ; 
Eyes of my age, 

Be religion your light ; 
5 Thoughts of my age, 

Dread ye not the cold sod ; 
Hopes of my age, 

Be ye fixed on your God. 

FLORENCE VANE 
Philip Pendleton Cooke (1816-1850) 

I loved thee long and dearly, 
1 o Florence Vane ; 

My life's bright dream and early 

Hath come again ; 
I renew in my fond vision 
My heart's dear pain, 
15 My hope and thy derision, 

Florence Vane ! 

The ruin, lone and hoary, 

The ruin old, 
Where thou didst hark my story, 
20 At even told, — 

That spot — the hues Elysian 

Of sky and plain — 
I treasure in my vision, 

Florence Vane ! 

2 5 Thou wast lovelier than the roses 

In their prime ; 
Thy voice excelled the closes 
Of sweetest rhyme ; 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 297 

Thy heart was as a river 

Without a main. 
Would I had loved thee never, 

Florence Vane ! 

But, fairest, coldest wonder ! 6 

Thy glorious clay 
Lieth the green sod under — 

Alas, the day ! 
And it boots not to remember 

Thy disdain — 10 

To quicken love's pale ember, 

Florence Vane ! 



X5 



The lilies of the valley 

By young graves weep, 
The pansies love to dally 

Where maidens sleep : 
May their bloom, in beauty vying, 

Never wane 
Where thine earthly part is lying, 

Florence Vane ! * ° 

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD 

Theodore O'Hara (1820-1867) 

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat 

The soldier's last tattoo ; 
No more on life's parade shall meet 

That brave and fallen few. 
On Fame's eternal camping-ground 25 

Their silent tents are spread, 
And Glory guards, with solemn round. 

The bivouac of the dead. 



298 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

No rumor of the foe's advance 

Now swells upon the wind ; 
No troubled thought at midnight haunts 

Of loved ones left behind ; 
5 No vision of the morrow's strife 

The warrior's dream alarms; 
No braying horn nor screaming fife 

At dawn shall call to arms. 

Their shivered swords are red with rust, 

1 ° Their plumed heads are bowed ; 

Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, 

Is now their martial shroud. 
And plenteous funeral tears have washed 
The red stains from each brow, 
1 5 And the proud forms, by battle gashed, 

Are free from anguish now. 

The neighing troop, the flashing blade, 

The bugle's stirring blast, 
The charge, the dreadful cannonade, 

2 ° The din and shout, are past ; 

Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal 
Shall thrill with fierce delight 

Those breasts that never more may feel 
The rapture of the fight. 

Like the fierce northern hurricane 
That sweeps this great plateau, 

Flushed with triumph yet to gain, 
Came down the serried foe. 

Who heard the thunder of the fray 
30 Break o'er the field beneath, 

Knew well the watchword of that day 
Was "Victory or death." 



10 



15 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 299 

Long had the doubtful conflict raged 

O'er all that stricken plain, 
For never fiercer fight had waged 

The vengeful blood of Spain ; 
And still the storm of battle blew, 

Still swelled the gory tide ; 
Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, 

Such odds his strength could bide. 

'Twas in that hour his stern command 

Called to a martyr's grave 
The flower of his beloved land 

The nation's flag to save. 
By rivers of their fathers' gore 

His first-born laurels grew, 
And well he deemed the sons would pour 

Their lives for glory, too. 

Full many a norther's breath has swept 

O'er Angostura's plain — 
And long the pitying sky has wept 

Above its moldering slain. 
The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, 

Or shepherd's pensive lay, 
Alone awakes each sullen height 

That frowned o'er that dread fray. 

Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground. 2 5 

Ye must not slumber there, 
Where stranger steps and tongues resound 

Along the heedless air. 
Your own proud land's heroic soil 

Shall be your fitter grave ; 30 

She claims from War his richest spoil — 

The ashes of her brave. 



20 



300 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, 

Far from the gory field ; 
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast 

On many a bloody shield; 
5 The sunlight of their native sky 

Smiles sadly on them here, 
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by 

The heroes' sepulcher. 

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead, 
' ° Dear as the blood ye gave ; 

No impious footstep here shall tread 

The herbage of your grave ; 
Nor shall your glory be forgot 
While Fame her record keeps, 
* ' Or Honor points the hallowed spot 

Where Valor proudly sleeps. 

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone 
In deathless song shall tell, 

When many a vanished age hath flown, 
2 J The story how ye fell ; 

Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, 
Nor Time's remorseless doom, 

Shall dim one ray of glory's light 
That gilds your glorious tomb. 

MARYLAND, MY MARYLAND 

James Ryder Randall (1839-1908) 

2 5 The despot's heel is on thy shore, 

Maryland ! 
His torch is at thy temple door, 
Maryland ! 






THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 301 

Avenge the patriotic gore 
That flecked the streets of Baltimore, 
And be the battle queen of yore, 
Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Hark to an exiled son's appeal, 5 

Maryland ! 
My Mother State, to thee I kneel, 

Maryland ! 
For life and death, for woe and weal. 
Thy peerless chivalry reveal 1° 

And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, 
Maryland, my Maryland ! 



15 



Thou wilt not cower in the dust, 

Maryland ! 
Thy beaming sword shall never rust, 

Maryland ! 
Remember Carroll's sacred trust, 
Remember Howard's warlike thrust, 
And all thy slumberers with the just, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 2 

Come ! 'tis the red dawn of the day, 

Maryland ! 
Come with thy panoplied array, 

Maryland ! 
With Ringgold's spirit for the fray, 
With Watson's blood at Monterey, 
With fearless Lowe and dashing May, 
Maryland, my Maryland ! 

\ Dear Mother! burst the tyrant's chain, 
Maryland ! 



25 



302 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Virginia should not call in vain, 

Maryland ! 
She meets her sisters on the plain — 
"Sic semper!" 'tis the proud refrain 
• That baffles minions back amain, 

Maryland ! 
Arise in majesty again, 

Maryland, my Maryland! 

Come ! for thy shield is bright and strong, 

1 Maryland ! 

Come ! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, 

Maryland ! 
Come to thine own heroic throng 
Walking with Liberty along, 
16 And chant thy dauntless slogan-song, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

I see the blush upon thy cheek, 

Maryland ! 
For thou wast ever bravely meek, 
*0 Maryland! 

But lo ! there surges forth a shriek, 
From hill to hill, from creek to creek, 
Potomac calls to Chesapeake, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

2 5 Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, 

Maryland ! 
Thou wilt not crook to his control, 

Maryland ! 
Better the fire upon thee roll, 
30 Better the shot, the blade, the bowl, 

Than crucifixion of the soul, 
Maryland, my Maryland! 






THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 303 

I hear the distant thunder hum, 

Maryland ! 
The Old Line bugle, fife, and drum, 

Maryland ! 

She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb ; 5 

****** 

She breathes — she burns ! she'll come ! sht'll come ! 
Maryland, my Maryland ! 

LITTLE GIFFEN OF TENNESSEE* 

Francis Orray Ticknor (1822-1874) 

Out of the focal and foremost fire, 

Out of the hospital walls as dire, i o 

Smitten of grapeshot and gangrene, 

Eighteenth battle and he sixteen — 

Specter such as you seldom see v 

Little Giffen of Tennessee. 

"Take him and welcome," the surgeon said ; 1 5 

"Not the doctor can help the dead !" 

So we took him and brought him where 

The balm was sweet in our summer air ; 

And we laid him down on a wholesome bed ; 

Utter Lazarus, heel to head ! 2 

And we watched the war with abated breath, 

Skeleton boy against skeleton death ! 

Months of torture, how many such ! 

Weary weeks of the stick and crutch, — 

And still a glint in the steel-blue eye 2 5 

Told of a spirit that wouldn't die, 



* From "The Poems of Francis Orray Ticknor," edited and collected by 
his granddaughter, Michelle Cutliff Ticknor, and published by The Neale 
Publishing Company, New York. 



304 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

And didn't ! Nay ! more ! in death's despite 
The crippled skeleton learned to write — 
"Dear Mother !" at first, of course, and then 
"Dear Captain !" inquiring about the men. 
5 Captain's answer : "Of eighty and five, 

Giffen and I are left alive." 

"Johnston pressed at the front," they say ; — 
Little Giffen was up and away ! 
A tear, his first, as he bade good-by, 
10 Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye. 

"I'll write, if spared !" There was news of fight, 
But none of Giffen — he did not write ! 

I sometimes fancy that were I King 
Of the courtly Knights of Arthur's ring, 
1 5 With the voice of the minstrel in mine ear 

And the tender legend that trembles here, 
I'd give the best on his bended knee — 
The whitest soul of my chivalry — 
For Little Giffen of Tennessee. 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 
Born in Boston, 1809 ; died in Baltimore, 1849 

TO HELEN 

20 Helen, thy beauty is to me 

Like those Nicean barks of yore, 
That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, 
The weary, wayworn wanderer bore 
To his own native shore. 






THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 305 

On desperate seas long wont to roam, 

Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, 
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home 

To the glory that was Greece, 
And the grandeur that was Rome. 5 

Lo ! in yon brilliant window niche 

How statue-like I see thee stand, 

The agate lamp within thy hand ! 
Ah, Psyche, from the regions which 

Are Holy-Land ! 10 

ISRAFEL 

In Heaven a spirit doth dwell 

"Whose heart-strings are a lute ;" 
None sing so wildly well 
As the angel Israfel, 
And the giddy stars (so legends tell), 
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell 

Of his voice, all mute. 

Tottering above 

In her highest noon, 

The enamored moon 2 ° 

Blushes with love, 

While, to listen, the red levin 

(With the rapid Pleiads, even, 

Which were seven) 

Pauses in heaven. 

And they say (the starry choir 

And the other listening things) 
That Israfeli's fire 
Is owing to that lyre 



15 



306 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

By which he sits and sings, — 
The trembling living wire 
Of those unusual strings. 

But the skies that angel trod, 
5 Where deep thoughts are a duty, 

Where Love's a grown-up God, 
Where the Houri glances are 
Imbued with all the beauty 
Which we worship in a star. 

Therefore thou art not wrong, 
Israfeli, who despisest 

An unimpassioned song ; 

To thee the laurels belong, 
Best bard, because the wisest : 
15 Merrily live, and long ! 

The ecstasies above 

With thy burning measures suit : 
Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, 

With the fervor of thy lute : 
2 ° Well may the stars be mute ! 

Yes, Heaven is thine ; but this 
Is a world of sweets and sours ; 
Our flowers are merely — flowers, 
25 And the shadow of thy perfect bliss 

Is the sunshine of ours. 

If I could dwell 
Where Israfel 

Hath dwelt, and he where I, 
He might not sing so wildly well 






THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 307 

A mortal melody, 
While a bolder note than this might swell 
From my lyre within the sky. 

THE RAVEN 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, 
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, — B 

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping 
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. 
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door: 
Only this and nothing more." 

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, 10 

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. 
Eagerly I wished the morrow ; — vainly I had sought to borrow 
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore, 
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named 

Lenore ; — x 5 

Nameless here for evermore. 

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain 
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before ; 
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating 
" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door, — 2 

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door ; — 
This it is and nothing more." 

Presently my soul grew stronger ; hesitating then no longer, 
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; 
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, 
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, 
That I scarce was sure I heard you" — here I opened wide the 
door ; — 

Darkness there and nothing more. 



25 



308 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, 

fearing, 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream 

before ; 
5 But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, 
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, 

"Lenore?" 
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, 

"Lenore I" 
*° Merely this and nothing more. 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, 
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. 
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice ; 
Let me see. then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore — 
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore ; — 
'Tis the wind and nothing more." 



15 



Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, 
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. 
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or 
20 stayed he 

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber 

door, — 
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door: 
Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

"* 5 Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling 
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, — 
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure 

no craven, 
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly 
3 shore : 

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore !" 
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 






THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 309 

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, 
Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore ; 
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door, — 
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, 6 
With such name as "Nevermore." 

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only 
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour, 
Nothing further then he uttered, not a feather then he fluttered. 
Till I scarcely more than muttered, — "Other friends have flown 10 

before ; 
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before." 
Then the bird said, "Nevermore " 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, 
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, 15 
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster 
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore : 
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore 
Of 'Never — nevermore.' " 

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, 20 

Straight I wheeled, a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust 

and door; 
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking 
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore, 
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of 25 

yore 

Meant in croaking "Nevermore." 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core ; 



310 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining 
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, 
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er 
She shall press, ah, nevermore ! 

5 Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen 
censer 
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. 
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee— by these angels he 
hath sent thee 
1 ° Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore ! 
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore !" 
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil! 
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here 
M ashore, 

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted — 
On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore: 
Is there— is there balm in Gilead ? — tell me — tell me, I implore I" 
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

20 "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil— prophet still, if bird or devil! 
By that Heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore, 
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, 
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore : 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore !" 

25 Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, 

upstarting : 
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore ! 
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 311 

Leave my loneliness unbroken ! quit the bust above my door ! 
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off 
my door !" 

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting 5 

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; 
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, 
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the 

floor: 
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor 1 ^ 
Shall be lifted — nevermore! 

ELDORADO 

Gaily bedight, 

A gallant knight, 
In sunshine and in shadow, 

Had journeyed long, 15 

Singing a song, 
In search of Eldorado. 

But he grew old — 

This knight so bold — 
And o'er his heart a shadow 2 ° 

Fell as he found 

No spot of ground 
That looked like Eldorado. 

And, as his strength 

Failed him at length, 2 5 

He met a pilgrim shadow — 

"Shadow," said he, 

"Where can it be — 
This land of Eldorado?" 



312 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

"Over the Mountains 

Of the Moon, 
Down the Valley of the Shadow 

Ride, boldly ride,"— 

5 The shade replied, — 

"If you seek for Eldorado." 

ANNABEL LEE 
It was many and many a year ago, 

In a kingdom by the sea, 
That a maiden there lived whom you may know 
10 By the name of Annabel Lee; 

And this maiden she lived with no other thought 
Than to love and be loved by me. 

I was a child and she was a child, 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
15 But we loved with a love that was more than love, 

I and my Annabel Lee ; 
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 

Coveted her and me. 

And this was the reason that, long ago, 
2 In this kingdom by the sea, 

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 

My beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
So that her highborn kinsmen came 
And bore her away from me, 
2 5 To shut her up in a sepulcher 

In this kingdom by the sea. 

The angels, not half so happy in heaven, 
Went envying her and me ; 






THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 313 

Yes! that was the' reason (as all men know, 

In this kingdom by the sea) 
That the wind came out of the cloud by night, 

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 

But our love it was stronger by far than the love 6 

Of those who were older than we, 

Of many far wiser than we ; 
And neither the angels in heaven above, 

Nor the demons down under the sea, 
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 10 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: 

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; I 5 

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side 
Of my darling — my darling — my life and my bride, 

In her sepulcher there by the sea, 

In her tomb by the sounding sea. 



THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO 

The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best 2 
could ; but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge. You, 
who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, how- 
ever, that I gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be 
avenged ; this was a point definitely settled— but the very defini- 
tiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. 2 5 
I must not only punish, but punish with impunity. A wrong is 
unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is 



10 



314 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt 
as such to him who has done the wrong. 

It must be understood, that neither by word nor deed had I 
given Fortunato cause to doubt my good-will. I continued, as 
was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that 
my smile now was at the thought of his immolation. 

He had a weak point — this Fortunato — although in other 
regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. He 
prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians 
have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part, their enthusiasm 
is adapted to suit the time and opportunity — to practice imposture 
upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and 
gemmary Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack — but in 
the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did 
15 not differ from him materially: I was skilful in the Italian 
vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could. 

It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness 
of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He 
accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking 
20 much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti- 
striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap 
and bells. I was so. pleased to see him that I thought I should 
never have done wringing his hand. 

I said to him: "My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met! 
25 How remarkably well you are looking to-day! But I have 
received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my 
doubts/' 

"How?" said he. "Amontillado? A pipe? Impossible! 
And in the middle of the carnival !" 
3 ° "I have my doubts," I replied ; "and I was silly enough to pay 

the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. 
You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain." 
"Amontillado !" 
"I have my doubts." 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 315 

"Amontillado !" 

"And I must satisfy them." 

"Amontillado l" 

"As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. If any 
one has a critical turn, it is he. He will tell me " 5 

"Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry." 

"And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for 
your own." 

"Come, let us go." 

"Whither?" 10 

"To your vaults." 

"My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I 
perceive you have an engagement. Luchesi " 

"I have no engagement — come." 

"My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe 15 
cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are 
insufferably damp. They are encrusted with niter." 

"Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. 
Amontillado! You have been imposed upon. And, as for 
Luchesi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado." 2 

Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm. Put- 
ting on a mask of black silk, and drawing a roquelaire closely 
about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo. 

There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to 
make merry in honor of the time. I had told them that I should 2 5 
not return until the morning and had given them explicit orders 
not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well 
knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as 
soon as my back was turned. 

I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and, giving one to 30 
Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the 
archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and 
winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. 



316 KEADINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

We came at length to the foot of the descent and stood together 
on the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors. 

The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his 
cap jingled as he strode. 
5 "The pipe?" said he. 

"It is farther on," said I; "but observe the white webwork 
which gleams from these cavern walls." 

He turned toward me, and looked into my eyes with two 
filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication. 
10 "Niter?" he asked, at length. 

"Niter," I replied. "How long have you had that cough?" 
"Ugh! ugh! ugh! — ugh! ugh! ugh! — ugh! ugh! ugh! — ugh! 
ugh ! ugh ! — ugh ! ugh ! ugh !" 

My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes. 
15 "It is nothing," he said, at last. 

"Come," I said, with decision, "we will go back; your health 
is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are 
happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For 
me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I 

2 o cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi " 

"Enough," he said; "the cough is a mere nothing; it will not 
kill me. I shall not die of a cough." 

"True — true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no intention of 
alarming you unnecessarily ; but you should use all proper caution. 
2 5 A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps." 

Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a 
long row of its fellows that lay upon the mold. 
"Drink," I said, presenting him the wine. 
He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded 
30 to me familiarly, while his bells jingled. 

"I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us." 

"And I to your long life." 

He again took my arm, and we proceeded. 

"These vaults," he said, "are extensive." 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 317 

"The Montresors," I replied, "were a great and numerous 
family." 

"I forget your arms." 

"A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes 
a serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the heel." 5 

"And the motto ?" 

"Nemo me impune lacessit" 

"Good !" he said. 

The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own 
fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through walls 1 ° 
of piled bones, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the 
inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time 
I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow. 

"The niter!" I said; "see, it increases. It hangs like moss 
upon the vaults. We are below the river's bed. The drops of 15 
moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere 
it is too late. Your cough " 

"It is nothing," he said; "let us go on. But, first, another 
draught of the Medoc." 

I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave. He emptied 20 
it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed 
and threw the bottle upward with a gesticulation I did not under- 
stand. 

I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement — a 
grotesque one. 2B 

"You do not comprehend ?" he said. 
Not I," I replied. 
Then you are not of the brotherhood." 

"How?" 

"You are not of the masons." 30 

"Yes, yes," I said ; "yes, yes." 

"You? Impossible! A mason!" 

"A mason," I replied. 

"A sign," he said. 



318 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

"It is this," I answered, producing a trowel from beneath the 
folds of my roquelaire. 

"You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "But let 
us proceed to the Amontillado." 
5 "Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak, and 

again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We 
continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed 
through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and, descend- 
ing again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the 
10 air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame. 

At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another 
less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains, 
piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs 
of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still orna- 
15 mented in this manner. From the fourth the bones had been 
thrown down and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at 
one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed 
by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior recess, 
in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. 
20 It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use within 
itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal 
supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of 
their circumscribing walls of solid granite. 

It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, 
25 endeavored to pry into the depth of the recess. Its termination 
the feeble light did not enable us to see. 

"Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado. As for 

Luchesi " 

"He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped 
30 unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. 
In an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and, 
finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewild- 
ered. A moment more, and I had fettered him to the granite. 
In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 319 

about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a 
short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about 
his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He 
was too much astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key, I 
stepped back from the recess. 5 

"Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot help 
feeling the niter. Indeed it is very damp. Once more let me 
implore you to return. No ? Then I must positively leave you. 
But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power." 

"The Amontillado!" ejaclulated my friend, not yet recovered 10 
from his astonishment. 

"True," I replied ; "the Amontillado." 

As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones 
of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon 
uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these 15 
materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to 
wall up the entrance of the niche. 

I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I 
discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great 
measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a 20 
low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was not the 
cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate 
silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; 
and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise 
lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to 2 5 
it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labors and sat down 
upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed 
the trowel and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, 
and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level 
with my breast. I again paused, and, holding the flambeaux over 30 
the mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within. 

A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly 
from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently 
back. For a brief moment I hesitated — I trembled. Unsheath- 



10 



320 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

ing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess ; but the 
thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the 
solid fabric of the catacombs and felt satisfied. I reapproached 
the wall. I replied to the yells of him who clamored. I 
reechoed — I aided — I surpassed them in volume and in strength. 
I did this, and the clamorer grew still. 

It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. 
I had completed the eight, the ninth, and the tenth tier. I had 
finished a portion of the last and the eleventh ; there remained but 
a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its 
weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now 
there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs 
upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had 
difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato. The 
15 voice said — 

"Ha ! ha ! ha — he ! he ! — a very good joke indeed — an excel- 
lent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the 
palazzo — he ! he ! he ! — over our wine — he ! he ! he !" 

"The Amontillado !" I said. 
20 "He! he! he!— he! he! he;— yes, the Amontillado. But is it 

not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, 
the Lady Fortunato and the rest ? Let us be gone." 

"Yes," I said, "let us be gone." 

"For the love of God, Montresor!" 
25 "Yes," I said, "for the love of God !" 

But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew 
impatient. I called aloud : 

"Fortunato !" 

No answer. I called again: 
30 "Fortunato!" 

No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining 
aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return only 
a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick — on account of the 
dampness of the catacombs. I hastened to make an end of my 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 321 

labor. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it 
up. Against the new masonry I reerected the old rampart of 
bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. 
In pace requiescat! 



THE PURLOINED LETTER 

At Paris, just after dark one gusty evening in the autumn 6 
of 18 — , I was enjoying the twofold luxury of meditation and 
a meerschaum, in company with my friend C. August Dupin, in 
his little back library, or book-closet, an troisieme, No. 33, Rue 
Dunot, Faubourg St. Germain. For one hour at least we had 
maintained a profound silence ; while each, to any casual observer, 10 
might have seemed intently and exclusively occupied with the 
curling eddies of smoke that oppressed the atmosphere of the 
chamber. For myself, however, I was mentally discussing certain 
topics which had formed matter for conversation between us at an 
earlier period of the evening; I mean the affair of the Rue 15 
Morgue, and the mystery attending the murder of Marie Roget. 
I looked upon it, therefore, as something of a coincidence, when 
the door of our apartment was thrown open and admitted our 

old acquaintance, Monsieur G , the Prefect of the Parisian 

police. 20 

We gave him a hearty welcome ; for there was nearly half as 
much of the entertaining as of the contemptible about the man, 
and we had not seen him for several years. We had been sitting 
in the dark, and Dupin now arose for the purpose of lighting a 

lamp, but sat down again, without doing so, upon G 's saying 2 5 

that he had called to consult us, or rather to ask the opinion of 
my friend, about some official business which had occasioned a 
great deal of trouble. 

"If it is any point requiring reflection," observed Dupin, as he 



322 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

forbore to enkindle the wick, "we shall examine it to better 
purpose in the dark." 

"That is another of your odd notions," said the Prefect, who 
had a fashion of calling every thing "odd" that was beyond his 
5 comprehension, and thus lived amid an absolute legion of 
"oddities." 

"Very true," said Dupin, as he supplied his visitor with a pipe, 
and rolled toward him a comfortable chair. 

"And what is the difficulty now?" I asked. "Nothing more 
10 in the assassination way, I hope?" 

"Oh no ; nothing of that nature. The fact is, the business is 
very simple indeed, and I make no doubt that we can manage it 
sufficiently well ourselves; but then I thought Dupin would like 
to hear the details of it, because it is so excessively odd." 
15 "Simple and odd," said Dupin. 

"Why, yes ; and not exactly that, either. The fact is, we have 
all been a good deal puzzled because the affair is so simple, and 
yet baffles us altogether." 

"Perhaps it is the very simplicity of the thing which puts you 
20 at fault," said my friend. 

"What nonsense you do talk!" replied the Prefect, laughing 
heartily. 

"Perhaps the mystery is a little too plain," said Dupin. 
"Oh, good heavens ! who ever heard of such an idea?" 
25 "A little too self-evident." 

"Ha! ha! ha!— ha! ha! ha!— ho! ho! ho!"— roared our 
visitor, profoundly amused, "oh, Dupin, you will be the death of 
me yet !" 

"And what, after all, is the matter on hand?" I asked. 

30 "Why, I will tell you," replied the Prefect, as he gave a long, 

steady, and contemplative puff, and settled himself in his chair. 

"I will tell you in a few words ; but, before I begin, let me caution 

you that this is an affair demanding the greatest secrecy, and that 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 323 

I should most probably lose the position I now hold, were it 
known that I confided it to any one." 

"Proceed," said I. 

"Or not," said Dupin. 

"Well, then; I have received personal information, from a 5 
very high quarter, that a certain document of the last importance 
has been purloined from the royal apartments. The individual 
who purloined it is known ; this beyond a doubt ; he was seen to 
take it. It is known, also, that it still remains in his possess ; on." 

"How is this known?" asked Dupin. 10 

"It is clearly inferred," replied the Prefect, "from the nature 
of the document, and from the non-appearance of certain results 
which would at once arise from its passing out of the robber's 
possession; — that is to say, from his employing it as he must 
design in the end to employ it." 15 

"Be a little more explicit," I said. 

"Well, I may venture so far as to say that the paper gives its 
holder a certain power in a certain quarter where such power is 
immensely valuable." The Prefect was fond of the cant of 
diplomacy. 20 

"Still I do not quite understand," said Dupin. 

"No ? Well ; the disclosure of the document to a third person, 
who shall be nameless, would bring in question the honor of a 
personage of most exalted station ; and this fact gives the holder 
of the document an ascendancy over the illustrious personage 25 
whose honor and peace are so jeopardized." 

"But this ascendancy," I interposed, "would depend upon the 
robber's knowledge of the loser's knowledge of the robber. Who 
would dare " 

"The thief," said G , "is the Minister D , who dares all 30 

things, those unbecoming as well as those becoming a man. The 
method of the theft was not less ingenious than bold. The docu- 
ment in question — a letter, to be frank — had been received by the 
personage robbed while alone in the royal boudoir. During its 



324 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

perusal she was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of the other 
exalted personage from whom especially it was her wish to 
conceal it. After a hurried and vain endeavor to thrust it in a 
drawer, she was forced to place it, open as it was, upon a table. 
5 The address, however, was uppermost, and, the contents thus 
unexposed, the letter escaped notice. At this juncture enters 

the Minister D . His lynx eye immediately perceives the 

paper, recognizes the handwriting of the address, observes the 
confusion of the personage addressed, and fathoms her secret. 

1 After some business transactions, hurried through in his ordinary 
manner, he produces a letter somewhat similar to the one in ques- 
tion, opens it, pretends to read it, and then places it in close 
juxtaposition to the other. Again he converses, for some fifteen 
minutes, upon the public affairs. At length, in taking leave, he 

1 5 takes also from the table the letter to which he had no claim. Its 
rightful owner saw, but, of course, dared not call attention to the 
act, in the presence of the third personage who stood at her elbow. 
The minister decamped; leaving his own letter — one of no 
importance — upon the table.'' 

20 "Here, then," said Dupin to me, "you have precisely what 

you demand to make the ascendancy complete — the robber's 
knowledge of the loser's knowledge of the robber." 

"Yes," replied the Prefect ; "and the power thus attained has, 
for some months past, been wielded, for political purposes, 

25 to a very dangerous extent. The personage robbed is more 
thoroughly convinced, every day, of the necessity of reclaiming 
her letter. But this, of course, cannot be done openly. In fine, 
driven to despair, she has committed the matter to me." 

"Than whom," said Dupin, amid a perfect whirlwind of smoke, 

30 "no more sagacious agent could, I suppose, be desired, or even 
imagined." 

"You flatter me," replied the Prefect ; "but it is possible that 
some such opinion may have been entertained." 

"It is clear," said I, "as you observe, that the letter is still in 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 325 

possession of the minister ; since it is this possession, and not any 
employment of the letter, which bestows the power. With the 
employment the power departs." 

"True," said G ; "and upon this conviction I proceeded. 

My first care was to make thorough search of the minister's 6 
hotel; and here my chief embarrassment lay in the necessity of 
searching without his knowledge. Beyond all things, I have been 
warned of the danger which would result from giving him reason 
to suspect our design." 

"But," said I, "you are quite au fait in these investigations. 10 
The Parisian police have done this thing often before." 

"O yes; and for this reason I did not despair. The habits 
of the minister gave me, too, a great advantage. He is frequently 
absent from home all night. His servants are by no means 
numerous. They sleep at a distance from their master's apart- 15 
ment, and, being chiefly Neapolitans, are readily made drunk. 
I have keys, as you know, with which I can open any chamber 
or cabinet in Paris. For three months a night has not passed, 
during the greater part of which I have not been engaged, person- 
ally, in ransacking the D Hotel. My honor is interested, 20 

and, to mention a great secret, the reward is enormous. So I 
did not abandon the search until I had become fully satisfied that 
the thief is a more astute man than myself. I fancy that I have 
investigated every nook and corner of the premises in which it 
is possible that the paper can be concealed." 25 

"But is it not possible," I suggested, "that although the letter 

may be in possession of the minister, as it unquestionably is, he 

may have concealed it elsewhere than upon his own premises?" 

"This is barely possible," said Dupin. "The present peculiar 

condition of affairs at court, and especially of those intrigues in 30 

which D is known to be involved, would render the instant 

availability of the document — its susceptibility of being, produced 
at a moment's notice — a point of nearly equal importance with its 
possession." 



326 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

"Its susceptibility of being produced ?" said I. 

"That is to say, of being destroyed," said Dupin. 

"True," I observed; "the paper is clearly, then, upon the 
premises. As for its being upon the person of the minister, we 
5 may consider that as out of the question." 

"Entirely," said the Prefect. "He has been twice waylaid, 
as if by footpads, and his person rigorously searched under my 
own inspection." 

"You might have spared yourself this trouble," said Dupin. 

10 "D , I presume, is not altogether a fool, and, if not, must have 

anticipated these waylayings, as a matter of course." 

"Not altogether a fool," said G , "but then he's a poet, 

which I take to be only one remove from a fool." 

"True," said Dupin, after a long and thoughtful whiff from 
15 his meerschaum, "although I have been guilty of certain doggerel 
myself." 

"Suppose you detail," said I, "the particulars of your search." 

"Why, the fact is, we took our time, and we searched every- 
where. I have had long experience in these affairs. I took the 
20 entire building, room by room; devoting the nights of a whole 
week to each. We examined, first, the furniture of each apart- 
ment. We opened every possible drawer; and I presume you 
know that, to a properly trained police agent, such a thing as a 
secret drawer is impossible. Any man is a dolt who permits a 
25 'secret' drawer to escape him in a search of this kind. The 
thing is so plain. There is a certain amount of bulk — of space — 
to be accounted for in every cabinet. Then we have accurate 
rules. The fiftieth part of a line could not escape us. After 
the cabinets we took the chairs. The cushions we probed with 
30 fine long needles you have seen me employ. From the tables we 
removed the tops." 

"Why so?" 

"Sometimes the top of a table, or other similarly arranged 
piece of furniture, is removed by the person wishing to conceal 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 327 

an article ; then the leg is excavated, the article deposited within 
the cavity, and the top replaced. The bottoms and tops of bed- 
posts are employed in the same way." 

"But could not the cavity be detected by sounding?" I asked. 

"By no means, if, when the article is deposited, a sufficient 5 
wadding of cotton be placed around it. Besides, in our case, we 
were obliged to proceed without noise." 

"But you could not have removed — you could not have taken 
to pieces all articles of furniture in which it would have been 
possible to make a deposit in the manner you mention. A letter 10 
may be compressed into a thin spiral roll, not differing much in 
shape or bulk from a large knitting-needle, and in this form it 
might be inserted into the rung of a chair, for example. You did 
not take to pieces all the chairs ?" 

"Certainly not; but we did better — we examined the rungs of 15 
every chair in the hotel, and, indeed, the jointings of every 
description of furniture, by the aid of a most powerful micro- 
scope. Had there been any traces of recent disturbance we 
should not have failed to detect it instantly. A single grain of 
gimlet-dust, for example, would have been as obvious as an apple. 2 
Any disorder in the glueing — any unusual gaping in the joints — 
would have sufficed to insure detection." 

"I presume you looked to the mirrors, between the boards 
and the plates, and you probed the beds and the bed-clothes, as 
well as the curtains and carpets." 2 5 

"That of course ; and when we had absolutely completed every 
particle of the furniture in this way, then we examined the house 
itself. We divided its entire surface into compartments, which 
we numbered, so that none might be missed ; then we scrutinized 
each individual square inch throughout the premises, including 30 
the two houses immediately adjoining, with the microscope, as 
before." 

"The two houses adjoining!" I exclaimed; "you must have 
had a great deal of trouble." 



328 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

"We had ; but the reward offered is prodigious." 
"You include the grounds about the houses?" 
"All the grounds are paved with brick. They gave us com- 
paratively little trouble. We examined the moss between the 
6 bricks, and found it undisturbed." 

"You looked among D 's papers, of course, and into the 

books of the library ?" 

"Certainly ; we opened every package and parcel ; we not only 
opened every book, but we turned over every leaf in each volume, 
10 not contenting ourselves with a mere shake, according to the 
fashion of some of our police officers. We also measured the 
thickness of every book-cover, with the most accurate admeasure- 
ment, and applied to each the most jealous scrutiny of the micro- 
scope. Had any of the bindings been recently meddled with, it 
15 would have been utterly impossible that the fact should have 
escaped observation. Some five or six volumes, just from the 
hands of the binder, were carefully probed, longitudinally, with 
the needles." 

"You explored the floors beneath the carpets?" 
20 "Beyond doubt. We removed every carpet, and examined the 

boards with the microscope." 

"And the paper on the walls ?" 
"Yes." 

"You looked into the cellars ?" 
25 "We did." 

"Then," I said, "you have been making a miscalculation, and 
the letter is not upon the premises, as you suppose." 

"I fear you are right there," said the Prefect. "And now, 
Dupin, what would you advise me to do ?" 
30 "To make a thorough research of the premises." 

"That is absolutely needless," replied G . "I am not more 

sure that I breathe than I am that the letter is not at the hotel." 
"I have no better advice to give you," said Dupin. "You 
have, of course, an accurate description of the letter?" 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 329 

"Oh yes !" — And here the Prefect, producing a memorandum- 
book, proceeded to read aloud a minute account of the internal, 
and especially of the external appearance of the missing docu- 
ment. Soon after finishing the perusal of this description, he 
took his departure, more entirely depressed in spirits than I had o 
ever known the good gentleman before. 

In about a month afterward he paid us another visit, and 
found us occupied very nearly as before. He took a pipe and 
a chair and entered into some ordinary conversation. At 
length, I said, — 10 

"Well, but G , what of the purloined letter? I presume 

you have at last made up your mind that there is no such thing 
as overreaching the minister ?" 

"Confound him, say I — yes; I made the reexamination, how- 
ever, as Dupin suggested — but it was all labor lost, as I knew 15 
it would be." 

"How much was the reward offered, did you say?" asked 
Dupin. 

"Why, a very great deal — a very liberal reward — I don't like 
to say how much, precisely; but one thing I will say, that I 2 
wouldn't mind giving my individual check for fifty thousand 
francs to any one who could obtain me that letter. The fact is, 
it is becoming of more and more importance every day; and the 
reward has been lately doubled. If it were trebled, however, I 
could do no more than I have done." 2 5 

"Why, yes," said Dupin, drawlingly, between the whiffs of 

his meerschaum, "I reahy — think, G , you have not exerted 

yourself — to the utmost in this matter. You might — do a little 
more, I think, eh?" 

"How? — in what way?" 30 

"Why — puff, puff — you might — puff, puff — employ counsel in 
the matter, eh? — puff, puff, puff. Do you remember the story 
they tell of Abernethy ?" 

"No ; hang Abernethy !" 



330 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

"To be sure ! hang him and welcome. But, once upon a time, 

a certain rich miser conceived the design of sponging upon this 

Abernethy for a medical opinion. Getting up, for this purpose, 

an ordinary conversation in a private company, he insinuated his 

5 case to the physician as that of an imaginary individual. 

" 'We will suppose/ said the miser, 'that his symptoms are 
such and such; now, doctor, what would you have directed him 
to take?' 

" Take !' said Abernethy, 'why, take advice, to be sure.' " 
10 "But," said the Prefect, a little discomposed, "I am perfectly 

willing to take advice, and to pay for it. I would really give 
fifty thousand francs to any one who would aid me in the matter." 

"In that case," replied Dupin, opening a drawer, and produc- 
ing a check-book, "you may as well fill me up a check for the 
15 amount mentioned. When you have signed it, I will hand you 
the letter." 

I was astounded. The Prefect appeared absolutely thunder- 
stricken. For some minutes he remained speechless and motion- 
less, looking incredulously at my friend with open mouth, and 
2 eyes that seemed starting from their sockets; then, apparently 
recovering himself in some measure, he seized a pen, and, after 
several pauses and vacant stares, finally filled up and signed a 
check for fifty thousand francs, and handed it across the table to 
Dupin. The latter examined it carefully and deposited it in his 

2 5 pocket-book; then, unlocking an escritoire, took thence a letter 

and gave it to the Prefect. This functionary grasped it in a 
perfect agony of joy, opened it with a trembling hand, cast a 
rapid glance at its contents, and then, scrambling and struggling 
to the door, rushed at length unceremoniously from the room and 

3 from the house, without having uttered a syllable since Dupin 

had requested him to fill up the check. 

When he had gone, my friend entered into some explanations. 

"The Parisian police," he said, "are exceedingly able in their 
way. They are persevering, ingenious, cunning, and thoroughly 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 331 

versed in the knowledge which their duties seem chiefly to 

demand. Thus, when G detailed to us his mode of searching 

the premises at the Hotel D , I felt entire confidence in his 

having made a satisfactory investigation — so far as his labors 
extended." 5 

"So far as his labors extended?" said I. 

"Yes," said Dupin. "The measures adopted were not only 
the best of their kind, but carried out to absolute perfection. 
Had the letter been deposited within the range of their search, 
these fellows would, beyond a question, have found it." 10 

I merely laughed — but he seemed quite serious in all that he 
said. 

"The measures, then," he continued, "were good in their kind, 
and well executed; their defect lay in their being inapplicable to 
the case, and to the man. A certain set of highly ingenious 15 
resources are, with the Prefect, a sort of Procrustean bed, to 
which he forcibly adapts his designs. But he perpetually errs by 
being too deep or too shallow for the matter in hand ; and many 
a schoolboy is a better reasoner than he. I knew one about eight 
years of age, whose success at guessing in the game of 'even and 2 
odd' attracted universal admiration. This game is simple, and is 
played with marbles. One player holds in his hand a number of 
these toys, and demands of another whether that number is even 
or odd. If the guess is right, the guesser wins one ; if wrong, he 
loses one. The boy to whom I allude won all the marbles of the 2 5 
school. Of course, he had some principle of guessing; and this 
lay in mere observation and admeasurement of the astuteness of 
his opponents. For example, an arrant simpleton is his opponent. 
and, holding up his closed hands, asks, 'are they even or odd?' 
Our schoolboy replied, 'odd,' and loses; but upon the second trial 3 
he wins, for he then says to himself, 'the simpleton had them even 
upon the first trial, and his amount of cunning is just sufficient 
to make him have them odd upon the second; I will therefore 
guess odd ;' — he guesses odd, and wins. Now, with a simpleton 



332 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

a degree above the first, he would have reasoned thus: 'This 
fellow finds that in the first instance I guessed odd, and, in the 
second, he will propose to himself upon the first impulse, a simple 
variation from even to odd, as did the first simpleton; but then 
5 a second thought will suggest that this is too simple a variation, 
and finally he will decide upon putting it even as before. I will 
therefore guess even;' — he guesses even, and wins. Now this 
mode of reasoning in the schoolboy, whom his fellows termed 
'lucky/ — what, in its last analysis, is it?" 
10 "It is merely," I said, "an identification of the reasoner's 

intellect with that of his opponent." 

"It is," said Dupin ; "and, upon inquiring of the boy by what 
means he effected the thorough identification in which his success 
consisted, I received answer as follows : 'When I wish to find out 
1 5 how wise, or how stupid, or how good, or how wicked is any one, 
or what are his thoughts at the moment, I fashion the expression 
of my face, as accurately as possible, in accordance with the 
expression of his, and then wait to see what thoughts or senti- 
ments arise in my mind or heart, as if to match or correspond 
2 with the expression.' This response of the schoolboy lies 
at the bottom of all the spurious profundity which has been 
attributed to Rochefoucauld, to La Bougive, to Machiavelli, and 
to Campanella." 

"And the identification," I said, "of the reasoner's intellect 
25 with that of his opponent, depends, if I understand you 
aright, upon the accuracy with which the opponent's intellect is 
admeasured." 

"For its practical value it depends upon this," replied Dupin ; 
"and the Prefect and his cohort fail so frequently, first, by default 
30 of this identification, and, secondly, by ill-admeasurement, or 
rather through non-admeasurement, of the intellect with which 
they are engaged. They consider only their own ideas of 
ingenuity; and, in searching for anything hidden, advert only to 
the modes in which they would have hidden it. They are right 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 333 

in this much— that their own ingenuity is a faithful representative 
of that of the mass; but when the cunning of the individual felon 
is diverse in character from their own, the felon foils them, of 
course. This always happens when it is above their own, and 
very usually when it is below. They have no variation of 5 
principle in their investigations; at best, when urged by some 
unusual emergency — by some extraordinary reward — they extend 
or exaggerate their old modes of practice, without touching their 

principles. What, for example, in this case of D , has been 

done to vary the principle of action? What is all this boring, 10 
and probing, and sounding, and scrutinizing with the microscope, 
and dividing the surface of the building into registered square 
inches— what is it all but an exaggeration of the application of 
the one principle or set of principles of search, which are based 
upon the one set of notions regarding human ingenuity, to which 1 5 
the Prefect, in the long routine of his duty, has been accustomed ? 
Do you not see he has taken it for granted that all men proceed 
to conceal a letter, — not exactly in a gimlet-hole bored in a 
chair-leg — but, at least, in some out-of-the-way hole or corner 
suggested by the same tenor of thought which would urge a man 20 
to secrete a letter in a gimlet-hole bored in a chair-leg. And 
do you not see also, that such recherches nooks for concealment 
are adopted only by ordinary occasions, and would be adopted 
only by ordinary intellects; for, in all cases of concealment, a 
disposal of the article concealed — a disposal of it in this recherche 2 5 
manner, — is, in the very first instance, presumable and presumed ; 
and thus its discovery depends, not at all upon the acumen, but 
altogether upon the mere care, patience, and determination of the 
seekers ; and where the case is of importance — or, what amounts 
to the same thing in the policial eyes, when the reward is of 30 
magnitude, — the qualities in question have never been known to 
fail. You will now understand what I meant in suggesting that, 
had the purloined letter been hidden anywhere within the limits 
of the Prefect's examination — in other words, had the principle 



334 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

of its concealment been comprehended within the principles of the 
Prefect — its discovery would have been a matter altogether 
beyond question. This functionary, however, has been thoroughly 
mystified; and the remote source of his defeat lies in the supposi- 
5 tion that the Minister is a fool, because he has acquired renown 
as a poet. All fools are poets ; this the Prefect feels; and he is 
merely guilty of a non distributio medii in thence inferring that 
all poets are fools." 

"But is this really the poet?" I asked. "There are two 
1 brothers, I know ; and both have attained reputation in letters. 
The Minister, I believe, has written learnedly on the Differential 
Calculus. He is a mathematician, and no poet." 

"You are mistaken; I know him well; he is both. As poet 
and mathematician, he would reason well ; as mere mathematician, 
15 he could not have reasoned at all, and thus would have been at 
the mercy of the Prefect." 

"You surprise me," I said, "by these opinions, which have 

been contradicted by the voice of the world. You do not mean 

to set at naught the well-digested idea of centuries. The 

2 mathematical reason has long been regarded as the reason par 

excellence." 

" 'II y a a parier/ " replied Dupin, quoting from Chamfort, 
" 'que toute idee publique, toute convention recue, est une sottise, 
car elle a convenu au plus grand nombre! The mathematicians, 
2 5 I grant you, have done their best to promulgate the popular error 
to which you allude, and which is none the less an error for its 
promulgation as truth. With an art worthy a better cause, for 
example, they have insinuated the term 'analysis' into application 
to algebra. The French are the originators of this particular 
30 deception; but if a term is of any importance — if words derive 
any value from applicability — then 'analysis' conveys 'algebra' 
about as much as, in Latin, 'ambitus' implies 'ambition,' 'religio' 
'religion/ or 'homines honesd/ a set of honorable men." 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 335 

"You have a quarrel on hand, I see," said I, "with some of 
the algebraists of Paris ; but proceed." 

"I dispute the availability, and thus the value, of that reason 
which is cultivated in any especial form other than the abstractly 
logical. I dispute, in particular, the reason educed by mathe- 5 
matical study. The mathematics are the science of form and 
quantity; mathematical reasoning is merely logic applied to 
observation upon form and quantity. The great error lies 
in supposing that even the truths of what is called pure 
algebra are abstract or general truths. And this error 10 
is so egregious that I am confounded at the universality 
with which it has been received. Mathematical axioms 
are not axioms of general truth. What is true of relation — 
of form and quantity — is often grossly false in regard to 
morals, for example. In this latter science it is very usually 15 
untrue that the aggregated parts are equal to the whole. In 
chemistry also the axiom fails. In the consideration of motive 
it fails ; for two motives, each of a given value, have not, neces- 
sarily, a value, when united, equal to the sum of their values 
apart. There are numerous other mathematical truths which are 2 
only truths within the limits of relation. But the mathematician 
argues, from his finite truths, through habit, as if they were of an 
absolutely general applicability — as the world indeed imagines 
them to be. Bryant, in his very learned 'Mythology/ mentions 
an analogous source of error when he says that 'although the 2 5 
Pagan fables are not believed, yet we forget ourselves continually, 
and make inferences from them as existing realities.' With the 
algebraists, however, who are Pagans themselves, the 'Pagan 
fables' are believed, and the inferences are made, not so much 
through lapse of memory, as through an unaccountable addling of 30 
the brains. In short, I never yet encountered the mere mathe- 
matician who could be trusted out of equal roots, or one who did 
not clandestinely hold it as a point of his faith that x 2 -\-px was 
absolutely and unconditionally equal to q. Say to one of these 



336 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

gentlemen, by way of experiment, if you please, that you believe 
occasions may occur where x 2 -\-px is not altogether equal to q, 
and, having made him understand what you mean, get out of his 
reach as speedily as convenient, for, beyond doubt, he will 
5 endeavor to knock you down. 

"I mean to say," continued Dupin, while I merely laughed at 
his last observations, "that if the Minister had been no more than 
a mathematician, the Prefect would have been under no necessity 
of giving me this check. I knew him, however, as both mathe- 

10 matician and poet, and my measures were adapted to his capacity, 
with reference to the circumstances by which he was surrounded. 
1 knew him as a courtier, too, and as a bold intriguant. Such a 
man, I considered, could not fail to be aware of the ordinary 
policial modes of action. He could not have failed to anticipate — 

15 and events have proved that he did not fail to anticipate — the 
waylayings to which he was subjected. He must have foreseen, 
I reflected, the secret investigations of his premises. His 
frequent absences from home at night, which were hailed by the 
Prefect as certain aids to his success, I regarded only as ruses, 

20 to afford opportunity for thorough search to the police, and thus 

the sooner to impress them with the conviction to which G , 

in fact, did finally arrive — the conviction that the letter was not 
upon the premises. I felt, also, that the whole train of thought, 
which I was at some pains in detailing to you just now, concerning 

2 5 the invariable principle of policial action in searches for articles 
concealed — I felt that this whole train of thought would neces- 
sarily pass through the mind of the Minister. It would impera- 
tively lead him to despise all the ordinary nooks of concealment. 
He could not, I reflected, be so weak as not to see that the most 

30 intricate and remote recess of his hotel would be as open as his 
commonest closets to the eye, to the probes, to the gimlets, and 
to the microscopes of the Prefect. I saw, in fine, that he would 
be driven, as a matter of course, to simplicity, if not deliberately 
induced to it as a matter of choice. You will remember, perhaps, 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 337 

how desperately the Prefect laughed when I suggested, upon our 
first interview, that it was just possible this mystery troubled him 
so much on account of its being so very self-evident." 

''Yes/' said I, "I remember his merriment well. I really 
thought he would have fallen into convulsions." 5 

"The material world," continued Dupin, "abounds with very 
strict analogies to the immaterial ; and thus some color of truth 
has been given to the rhetorical dogma that metaphor, or simile, 
may be made to strengthen an argument, as well as to embellish 
a description. The principle of the vis inertiae, for example, 10 
seems to be identical in physics and metaphysics. It is not more 
true in the former that a large body is with more difficulty set 
in motion than a smaller one, and that its subsequent momentum 
is commensurate with this difficulty, than it is, in the latter, that 
intellects of the vaster capacity, while more forcible, more con- 15 
stant, and more eventful in their movements than those of inferior 
grade, are yet the less readily moved, and more embarrassed and 
full of hesitation in the first few steps of their progress. Again : 
have you ever noticed which of the street signs, over the shop 
doors, are the most attractive of attention?" 20 

"I have never given the matter a thought," I said. - 

"There is a game of puzzles," he resumed, "which is played 
upon a map. One party playing requires another to find a given 
word — the name of town, river, state or empire — any word, in 
short, upon the motley and perplexed surface of the chart. A 25 
novice in the game generally seeks to embarrass his opponents by 
giving them the most minutely lettered names; but the adept 
selects such words as stretch, in large characters, from one end 
of the chart to the other. These, like the over-largely lettered 
signs and placards of the street, escape observation by dint of 30 
being excessively obvious; and here the physical oversight is 
precisely analogous with the moral inapprehension by which the 
intellect suffers to pass unnoticed those considerations which are 
too obtrusively and too palpably self-evident. But this is a point, 



15 



338 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

it appears, somewhat above or beneath the understanding of the 
Prefect. He never once thought it probable, or possible, that the 
Minister had deposited the letter immediately beneath the nose 
of the whole world, by way of best preventing any portion of 
5 that world from perceiving it. 

"But the more I reflected upon the daring, dashing, and 
discriminating ingenuity of D ; upon the fact that the docu- 
ment must always have been at hand, if he intended to use it to 
good purpose; and upon the decisive evidence, obtained by the 

10 Prefect, that it was not hidden within the limits of that dignitary's 
ordinary search — the more satisfied I became that, to conceal this 
letter, the Minister had resorted to the comprehensive and 
sagacious expedient of not attempting to conceal it at all. 

"Full of these ideas, I prepared myself with a pair of green 
spectacles, and called one fine morning, quite by accident, at the 

ministerial hotel. I found D at home, yawning, lounging, 

and dawdling, as usual, and pretending to be in the last extremity 
of ennui. He is, perhaps, the most really energetic human being 
now alive — but that is only when nobody sees him. 

2 "To be even with him, I complained of my weak eyes, and 

lamented the necessity of the spectacles, under cover of which I 
cautiously and thoroughly surveyed the apartment, while seem- 
ingly intent upon only the conversation of my host. 

"I paid special attention to a large writing-table near which 

26 he sat, and upon which lay, confusedly, some miscellaneous letters 
and other papers, with one or two musical instruments and a few 
books. Here, however, after a long and very deliberate scrutiny, 
I saw nothing to excite particular suspicion. 

"At length my eyes, in going the circuit of the room, fell upon 

SO a trumpery fillagree card-rack of paste-board that hung dangling 
by a dirty blue ribbon from a little brass knob just beneath the 
middle of the mantelpiece. In this rack, which had three or 
four compartments, were five or six visiting cards and a solitary 
letter. This last was much soiled and crumpled. It was torn 









THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 339 

nearly in two, across the middle — as if a design, in the first 
instance, to tear it entirely up as worthless, had been altered, ©r 
stayed, in the second. It had a large black seal, bearing the 

D cipher very conspicuously, and was addressed, in a 

diminutive female hand, to D , the minister, himself. It 5 

was thrust carelessly, and even, as it seemed, contemptuously, 
into one of the upper divisions of the rack. 

"No sooner had I glanced at this letter than I concluded it 
to be that of which I was in search. To be sure, it was, to all 
appearance, radically different from the one of which the Prefect 10 
had read us so minute a description. Here the seal was large 

and black, with the D cipher; there it was small and red, 

with the ducal arms of the S family. Here, the address, to 

the Minister, was diminutive and feminine ; there the superscrip- 
tion, to a certain royal personage, was markedly bold and decided ; 15 
the size alone formed a point of correspondence. But, then, the 
radicalness of these differences, which was excessive; the dirt; 
the soiled and torn condition of the paper, so inconsistent with 

the true methodical habits of D , and so suggestive of a design 

to delude the beholder into an idea of the worthlessness of the 2 
document; these things, together with the hyper-obtrusive situa- 
tion of this document, full in the view of every visitor, and thus 
exactly in accordance with the conclusions to which I had pre- 
viously arrived ; these things, I say, were strongly corroborative 
of suspicion, in one who came with the intention to suspect. 2 5 

"I protracted my visit as long as oossible, and, while I main- 
tained a most animated discussion with the Minister, on a topic 
which I knew well had never failed to interest and excite him, I 
kept my attention really riveted upon the letter. In this examina- 
tion, I committed to memory its external appearance and arrange- 30 
ment in the rack ; and also fell, at length, upon a discovery which 
set at rest whatever trivial doubt I might have entertained. In 
scrutinizing the edges of the paper, I observed them to be more 
chafed than seemed necessary. They presented the broken ap- 



340 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

pearance which is manifested when a stiff paper, having been 
once folded and pressed with a folder, is refolded in a reversed 
direction, in the same creases or edges which had formed the 
original fold. The discovery was sufficient. It was clear to me 
5 that the letter had been turned, as a glove, inside out, re-directed, 
and re-sealed. I bade the Minister good morning, and took my 
departure at once, leaving a gold snuff-box upon the table. 

"The next morning I called for the snuff-box, when we re- 
sumed, quite eagerly, the conversation of the preceding day. 

10 While thus engaged, however, a loud report, as if of a pistol, was 
heard immediately beneath the windows of the hotel, and was suc- 
ceeded by a series of fearful screams, and the shoutings of a mob. 

D rushed to a casement, threw it open, and looked out. In 

the meantime, I stepped to the card-rack, took the letter, put it in 

15 my pocket, and replaced it by a facsimile, (so far as regards ex- 
ternals,) which I had carefully prepared at my lodgings; imitating 

the D cipher, very readily, by means of a seal formed of 

bread. 

"The disturbance in the street had been occasioned by the fran- 

2 tic behavior of a man with a musket. He had fired it among a 
crowd of women and children. It proved, however, to have been 
without ball, and the fellow was suffered to go his way as a luna- 
tic or a drunkard. When he had gone, D came from the 

window, whither I had followed him immediately upon securing 

2 5 the object in view. Soon afterward I bade him farewell. The 
pretended lunatic was a man in my own pay." 

"But what purpose had you," I asked, "in replacing the letter 
by a facsimile ? Would it not have been better, at the first visit, 
to have seized it openly, and departed ?" 

30 "D ," replied Dupin, "is a desperate man, and a man of 

nerve. His hotel, too, is not without attendants devoted to his 
interests. Had I made the wild attempt you suggest, I might never 
have left the Ministerial presence alive. The good people of Paris 
might have heard of me no more. But I had an object apart 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 341 

trom these considerations. You know my political prepossessions. 
In this matter, I act as a partisan of the lady concerned. For 
eighteen months the Minister has had her in his power. She has 
now him in hers ; since, being unaware that the letter is not in his 
possession, he will proceed with his exactions as if it was. Thus 5 
will he inevitably commit himself, at once, to his political destruc- 
tion. His downfall, too, will not be more precipitate than awk- 
ward. It is all very well to talk about the facilis descensus 
Averni; but in all kinds of climbing, as Catalani said of singing, 
it is far more easy to get up than to come down. In the present 16 
instance I have no sympathy — at least no pity — for him wh» de- 
scends. He is that monstrum horrendum, an unprincipled man 
of genius. I confess, however, that I should like very well to 
know the precise character of his thoughts, when, being defied by 
her whom the Prefect terms 'a certain personage,' he is reduced 15 
to opening the letter which I left for him in the card-rack." 
"How ? did you put anything particular in it ?" 
"Why — it did not seem altogether right to leave the interior 

blank — that would have been insulting. D , at Vienna once, 

did me an evil turn, which I told him, quite good-humoredly, that 20 
I should remember. So, as I knew he would feel some curiosity 
in regard to the identity of the person who had outwitted him, I 
thought it a pity not to give him a clue. He is well acquainted 
with my MS., and I just copied into the middle of the blank sheet 
the words — 2S 

Un dessein si funeste, 

S'il n'est digne d' Atree, est digne cte Thyeste. 

They are to be found in Crebillon's 'Atree.' " 



542 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 



SIDNEY LANIER 

Born in Macon, Ga., 1842; died in Lynn, N. C., 1881 

SONG OF THE CHATTAHOOCHE 

Out of the hills of Habersham, 

Down the valleys of Hall, 
I hurry amain to reach the plain, 
Run the rapid and leap the fall, 
5 Split at the rock and together again, 

Accept my bed, or narrow or wide, 
And flee from folly on every side 
With a lover's pain to attain the plain 

Far from the hills of Habersham, 
1° Far from the valleys of Hall. 

All down the hills of Habersham, 

All through the valleys of Hall, 
The rushes cried, Abide, abide, 
The willful water-weeds held me thrall, 
15 The laving laurel turned my tide, 

The ferns and the fondling grass said, Stay, 
The dewberry dipped for to work delay, 
And the little reeds sighed, Abide, abide, 

Here in the hills of Habersham, 

Here in the valleys of Hall. 



20 



High o'er the hills of Habersham, 

Veiling the valleys of Hall, 
The hickory told me manifold 
Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall 
25 . Wrought me her shadowy self to hold, 

The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine, 
Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign, 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 343 

Said, Pass not, so cold, these manifold 
Deep shades of the hills of Habersham, 
These glades in the valleys of Hall 

And oft in the hills of Habersham, 

And oft in the valleys of Hall, 5 

The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook-stone 
Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl, 
And many a luminous jewel lone 
— Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist, 
Ruby, garnet, and amethyst — 
Made lures with the lights of streaming stone 1 

In the clefts of the hills of Habersham, 

In the beds of the valleys of Hall. 

But oh, not the hills of Habersham, 

And oh, not the valleys of Hall 
Avail : I am fain for to water the plain. 1 5 

Downward the voices of Duty call — 
Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main, 
The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn, 
And a myriad flowers mortally yearn, 
And the lordly main from beyond the plain 2 

Calls o'er the hills of Habersham, 

Calls through the valleys of Hall. 



THE MARSHES OF GLYNN 2 5 

Glooms of the live-oaks, beautiful-braided and woven 
With intricate shades of the vines that myriad-cloven 
Clamber the forks of the multiform boughs — 

Emerald twilights, — 

Virginal shy lights, 



344 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Wrought of the leaves to allure to the whisper of vows, 
When lovers pace timidly down through the green colonnades 
Of the dim sweet woods, of the dear dark woods, 
Of the heavenly woods and glades, 
5 That run to the radiant marginal sand-beach within 
The wide sea-marshes of Glynn ; — 

Beautiful glooms, soft dusks in the noon-day fire, — 
Wildwood privacies, closets of lone desire, 

Chamber from chamber parted with wavering arras of leaves, — 
10 Cells for the passionate pleasure of prayer to the ^oul that grieves, 
Pure with a sense of the passing of saints through the wood, 
Cool for the dutiful weighing of ill with good ; — 



15 



O braided dusks of the oak and woven shades of the vine, 
)Vhile the riotous noon-day sun of the June-day long did shine 
Ye held me fast in your heart and I held you fast in mine ; 
But now when the noon is no more, and riot is rest, 
And the sun is a-wait at the ponderous gate of the West, 
And the slant yellow beam down the wood-aisle doth seem 
Like a lane into heaven that leads from a dream, — 
20 Ay, now, when my soul all day hath drunken the soul of the oak, 
And my heart is at ease from men, and the wearisome sound of 

the stroke 
Of the scythe of time and the trowel of trade is low, 
And belief overmasters doubt, and I know that I know, 
2 5 And my spirit is grown to a lordly great compass within, 

That the length and the breadth and the sweep of the marshes 

of Glynn 
Will work me no fear like the fear they have wrought me of yore 
When length was fatigue, and when breadth was but bitterness 

sore, 
And when terror and shrinking and dreary unnamable pain 
Drew over me ouf. of the merciless miles of the plain, — 



30 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 345 

Ch, now, unafraid, I am fain to face 

The vast sweet visage of space. 

To the edge of the wood I am drawn, I am drawn, 

Where the gray beach glimmering runs, as a belt of the dawn, 

For a mete and a mark 5 

To the forest-dark : — 
So: 
Affable live-oak, leaning low, — 

Thus — with your favor — soft, with a reverent hand, 
(Not lightly touching your person, Lord of the land!) 10 

Bending your beauty aside, with a step I stand 
On the firm-packed sand 

Free 
By a world of marsh that borders a world of sea. 

sinuous southward and sinuous northward the shimmering band 
Of the sand-beach fastens the fringe of the marsh to the folds of 

the land. 
Inward and outward to northward and southward the beach-lines 

linger and curl 
As a silver-wrought garment that clings to and follows the firm 2 

sweet limbs of a girl. 
Vanishing, swerving, evermore curving again into sight, 
Softly the sand-beach wavers away to a dim gray looping of light. 
And what if behind me to westward the wall of the woods stands 

high? 
The world lies east: how ample, the marsh and the sea and the 

sky! 
A league and a league of marsh-grass, waist-high broad in the 

blade, 
Green, and all of a height, and unflecked, with a light or a shade, 3 
Stretch leisurely off, in a pleasant plain, 
To the terminal blue of the main. 



346 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Oh, what is abroad in the marsh and the terminal sea ? 
Somehow my soul seems suddenly free 
From the weighing of fate and the sad discussion of sin, 
By the length and the breadth and the sweep of the marshes of 
5 Glynn. 

Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing-withholding and 

free 
Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer yourselves to the sea ! 
Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun, 
*° Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightily won 
God out of knowledge and good out of infinite pain 
And sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain. 

As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sod, 
Behold I will build me a nest in the greatness of God: 

15 I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh-hen flies 

In the freedom that fills all the space 'twixt the marsh and the 

skies : 
By so many roots as the marsh-grass sends in the sod 
I will heartily lay me a-hold on the greatness of God : 

20 Oh, like to the greatness of God is the greatness within 
The range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of Glynn. 

And the sea lends large, as the mar^h : lo, out of his plenty the 

sea 
Pours fast : full soon the time of the flood-tide must be : 
2 5 Look how the grace of the sea doth go 

About and about through the intricate channels that flow 
Here and there, 
Everywhere, 
Till his waters have flooded the uttermost creeks and the low-lying 
30 lanes, 

And the marsh is meshed with a million veins, 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 347 

That like as with rosy and silvery essences flow 
In the rose-and-silver evening glow. 

Farewell, my lord Sun! 
The creeks overflow : a thousand rivulets run 

'Twixt the roots of the sod; the blades of the marsh-grass stir; 6 
Passeth a hurrying sound of wings that westward whirr; 
Passeth, and all is still ; and the currents cease to run ; 
And the sea and the marsh are one. 

How still the plains of the waters bt 

The tide is in his ecstasy. J ° 

The tide is at his highest height: 

And it is night. 
And now from the Vast of the Lord will the waters of sleep 
Roll in on the souls of men, 

But who will reveal to our waking ken * 5 

The forms that swim and the shapes that creep 

Under the waters of sleep ? 
And I would I could know what swimmeth below when the tide 

comes in 
On the length and the breadth of the marvelous marshes of Glynn. 2 



TAMPA ROBINS 

The robin laughed in the orange tree: 
"Ho, windy North, a fig for thee : 
While breasts are red and wings are bold 
And green trees wave us globes of gold, 

Time's scythe shall reap but bliss for me 2 5 

— Sunlight, song, and the orange tree. 

Burn, golden globes in leafy sky, 
My orange planets : crimson I 



348 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Will shine and shoot among the spheres 
(Blithe meteor that no mortal fears) 
And thrid the heavenly orange tree 
With orbits bright of minstrelsy. 

5 If that I hate wild winter's spite — 

The gibbet trees, the world in white, 
The sky but gray wind over a grave — 
W T hy should I ache, the season's slave? 
I'll sing from the top of the orange tree, 
10 Gramercy, winter's tyranny. 

I'll south with the sun, and keep my clime; 

My wing is king of the summer time ; 

My breast to the sun his torch shall hold ; 

And I'll call down through the green and gold, 
Time, take thy scythe, reap bliss for me, 
Bestir thee under the orange tree." 



15 



HENRY TIMROD 
Born in Charleston, S. G, 1829; died in Columbia, S- C, 1867 

THE COTTON BOLL 

While I recline 

At ease beneath 

This immemorial pine, 
2 Small sphere ! 

(By dusky ringers brought this morning here 

And shown with boastful smiles), 

I turn thy cloven sheath, 

Through which the soft white fibers peer, 
25 That, with their gossamer bands, 

Unite, like love, the sea-divided lands, 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS W 

And slowly, thread by thread, 

Draw forth the folded strands, 

Than which the trembling line, 

By whose frail help yon startled spider fled 

Down the tall spear-grass from his swinging bed, 6 

Is scarce more fine; 

And as the tangled skein 

Unravels in my hands, 

Betwixt me and the noonday light, 

A veil seems lifted, and for miles and miles 10 

The landscape broadens on my sight, 

As, in the little boll, there lurked a spell 

Like that which, in the ocean shell, 

With mystic sound, 

Breaks down the narrow walls that hem us round, 16 

And turns some city lane 

Into the restless main, 

With all his capes and isles ! 

Yonder bird, 

Which floats, as if at rest, 20 

In those blue tracts above the thunder, where 

No vapors cloud the stainless air, 

And never sound is heard, 

Unless at such rare time 

When, from the City of the Blest, 25 

Rings down some golden chime, 

Sees not from his high place 

So vast a cirque of summer space 

As widens round me in one mighty field, 

Which, rimmed by seas and sands, 30 

Doth hail its earliest daylight in the beams 

Of gray Atlantic dawns ; 

And, broad as realms made up of many lands, 



350 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Is lost afar 

Behind the crimson hills and purple lawns 
Of sunset, among plains which roll their streams 
Against the Evening Star ! 
5 Andlo! 

To the remotest point of sight, 
Although I gaze upon no waste of snow, 
The endless field is white ; 
And the whole landscape glows, 

1 ° For many a shining league away, 

With such accumulated light 
As Polar lands would flash beneath a tropic day ! 
Nor lack there ( for the vision grows, 
And the small charm within my hands — 
15 More potent even than the fabled one, 
Which oped whatever golden mystery 
Lay hid in fairy wood or magic vale 
The curious ©intment of the Arabian tale — 
Beyond all mortal sense 

2 Doth stretch my sight's horizon, and I see 

Beneath its simple influence, 

As if with Uriel's crown, 

I stood in some great temple of the Sun, 

And looked, as Uriel, down!) 
2 5 Nor lack there pastures rich and fields all green 

With all the common gifts of God, 

For temperate airs and torrid sheen 

Weave Edens of the sod ; 

Through lands which look one sea of billowy gold 
30 Broad rivers wind their devious ways; 

A hundred isles in their embraces fold 

A hundred luminous bays ; 

And through yon purple haze 

Vast mountains lift their plumed peaks cloud-crowned ; 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 351 

And, save where up their sides the plowman creeps, 

An unhewn forest girds them grandly round, 

In whose dark shades a future navy sleeps ! 

Ye Stars, which, though unseen, yet with me gaze 

Upon this loveliest fragment of the earth ! 5 

Thou Sun, that kindlest all thy gentlest rays 

Above it, as to light a favorite hearth ! 

Ye Clouds, that in your temples in the west 

See nothing brighter than its humblest flowers ! 

And you, ye Winds, that on the ocean's breast 10 

Are kissed to coolness ere ye reach its bowers ! 

Bear witness with me in my song of praise, 

And tell the world that, since the world began, 

No fairer land hath fired a poet's lays, 

Or given a home to man ! 1 5 

But these are charms already widely blown! 

His be the meed whose pencil's trace 

Hath touched our very swamps with grace, 

And round whose tuneful way 

All Southern laurels bloom; 20 

The Poet of "The Woodlands," unto whom 

Alike are known 

The flute's low breathing and the trumpet's tone, 

And the soft west wind's sighs ; 

But who shall utter all the debt, 2 5 

O land wherein all powers are met 

That bind a people's heart, 

The world doth owe thee at this day, 

And which it never can repay, 

Yet scarcely deigns to own! 30 

Where sleeps the poet who shall fitly sing 

The source wherefrom doth spring 

That mighty commerce which, confined 



352 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

To the mean channels of no selfish mart, 

Goes out to every shore 

Of this broad earth, and throngs the sea with ships 

That bear no thunders ; hushes hungry lips 

5 In alien lands ; 

Joins with a delicate web remotest strands ; 

And gladdening rich and poor, 

Doth gild Parisian domes, 

Or feed the cottage smoke of English homes, 

10 And only bounds its blessings by mankind? 
In offices like these thy mission lies, 
My Country ! and it shall not end 
As long as rain shall fall and Heaven bend 
In blue above thee. Though thy foes be hard 

15 And cruel as their weapons, it shall guard 

Thy hearthstones as a bulwark; make thee great 
In white and bloodless state; 
And haply, as the years increase — 
Still working through its humbler reach 

20 With that large wisdom which the ages teach — 
Revive the half-dead dream of universal peace ! 
As men who labor in that mine 
Of Cornwall, hollowed out beneath the bed 
Of ocean, when a storm rolls overhead, 

2 5 Hear the dull booming of the world of brine 
Above them, and a mighty muffled roar 
Of wind and waters, yet toil calmly on, 
And split the rock, and pile the massive ore, 
Or carve a niche or shape the arched roof ; 

30 So I, as calmly, weave my woof 
Of song, chanting the days to come, 
Unsilenced, though the quiet summer air 
Stirs with the bruit of battles, and each dawn 
Wakes from its starry silence to the hum 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 353 

Of many gathering armies. Still 

In that we sometimes hear, 

Upon the Northern winds, the voice of woe 

Not wholly drowned in triumph, though I know 

The end must crown us, and a few brief years 6 

Dry all our tears, 

I may not sing too gladly. To thy will 

Resigned, O Lord ! we cannot all forget 

That there is much even Victory must regret. 

And, therefore, not too long * ° 

From the great burthen of our country's wrong 

Delay our just release ! 

And, if it may be, save 

These sacred fields of peace 

From stain of patriot or of hostile blood ! 1 5 

O, help us, Lord ! to roll the crimson flood 

Back on its course, and while our banners wing 

Northward, strike with us ! till the Goth shall cling 

To his own blasted altar-stones, and crave 

2 

Mercy ; and we shall grant it, and dictate 

The lenient future of his fate 

There, where some rotting ships and crumbling quays 

Shall one day mark the Port which ruled the Western seas. 



25 






MAGNOLIA CEMETERY ODE 

Sleep sweetly in your humble graves, 

Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause ; 
Though yet no marble column craves 

The pilgrim here to pause. 

In seeds of laurel in the earth 

The blossom of your fame is blown, 
And somewhere, waiting for its birth, 3o 

The shaft is in the stone. 



354 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years 

Which keep in trust your storied tombs, 

Behold ! your sisters bring their tears, 
And these memorial blooms. 

5 Small tributes ! but your shades will smile 

More proudly on these wreaths to-day, 
Than when some cannon-moulded pile 
Shall overlook this bay. 

Stoop, angels, hither from the skies I 
10 There is no holier spot of ground 

Than where defeated valor lies, 
By mourning beauty crowned ! 



SPRING 

Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air 
Which dwells with all things fair, 
15 Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain, 

Is with us once again. 

Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns 

Its fragrant lamps, and turns 
Into a royal court with green festoons 
20 The banks of dark lagoons. 

In the deep heart of every forest tree 

The blood is all aglee, 
And there's a look about the leafless bowers 

As if they dreamed of flowers. 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 355 

Yet still on every side we trace the hand 

Of Winter in the land, 
Save where the maple reddens on the lawn, 

Flushed by the season's dawn. 

Or where, like those strange semblances we find 5 

That age to childhood bind, 
The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, 

The brown of Autumn corn. 

As yet the turf is dark, although you know 

That not a span below, 10 

A thousand germs are groping through the gloom, 
And soon will burst their tomb. 

Already, here and there, on frailest stems 

Appear some azure gems, 
Small as might deck, upon a gala day, 15 

The forehead of a fay. 

In gardens you may note amid the dearth 

The crocus breaking earth ; 
And near the snowdrop's tender white and green, 

The violet in its screen. 

But many gleams and shadows need must pass 

Along the budding grass, 
And weeks go by, before the enamored South 

Shall kiss the rose's mouth. 

Still there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn 

In the sweet airs of morn; 
One almost looks to see the very street 

Grow purple at his feet. 



20 



25 



356 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

'At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by, 

And brings, you know not why, 
A feeling a^ when eager crowds await 

Before a oalace gate 

5 Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start 

If from a beech's heart, 
A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say, 
"Behold me! I am May!" 

Ah ! who would couple thoughts of war and crime 
1 * With such a blessed time ! 

Who in the west wind's aromatic breath 
Could hear the call of Death ! 

Yet not more surely shall the Spring awake 
The voice of wood and brake, 
15 Than she shall rouse, for all her tranquil charms, 

A million men to arms. 



PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 
Born in Charleston, S. G, 1830; died near Augusta, Ga., 1886 

THE MOCKING BIRD 

(At Night) 
A golden pallor of voluptuous light 
Filled the warm southern night: 
The moon, clear orbed, above the sylvan scene 
20 Moved like a stately queen, 

So rife with conscious beauty all the while, 
What could she do but smile 
At her own perfect lovliness below, 
Glassed in the tranquil flow 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 357 

Of crystal fountains and unruffled streams? 

Half lost in waking dreams, 

As down the loneliest forest dell I strayed, 

Lo ! from a neighboring glade, 

Flashed through the drifts of moonshine, swiftly came 6 

A fairy shape of flame. 

It rose in dazzling spirals overhead, 

Whence to wild sweetness wed, 

Poured marvelous melodies, silvery trill on trill; 

The very leaves grew still 10 

On the charmed trees to hearken ; while for me 

Heart-thrilled to ecstasy, 

I followed — followed the bright shape that flew, 

Still circling up the blue, 

Till as a fountain that has reached its height, 15 

Falls back in sprays of light 

Slowly dissolved, so that enrapturing lay, 

Divinely melts away 

Through tremulous spaces to a music-mist, 

Soon by the fitful breeze 20 

How gently kissed 

Into remote and tender silences. 



ASPECTS OF THE PINES 

Tall, sombre, grim, against the morning sky 
They rise, scarce touched by melancholy airs, 

Which stir the fadeless foliage dreamfully, 25 

As if from realms of mystical despairs. 

Tall, somber, grim, they stand with dusky gleams 
Brightening to gold within the woodland's core, 

Beneath the gracious noontide's tranquil beams — 
But the weird winds of morning sigh no more. 



358 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

A stillness, strange, divine, ineffable, 

Broods round and o'er them in the wind's surcease, 
And on each tinted copse and shimmering dell 

Rests the mute rapture of deep-hearted peace. 

5 Last, sunset comes — the solemn joy and might 

Borne from the west when cloudless day declines- 
Low, flutelike breezes sweep the waves of light, 
And, lifting dark green tresses of the pines, 

Till every lock is luminous — gently float, 
1 ° Fraught with hale odors up the heavens afar 

To faint when twilight on her virginal throat 
Wears for a gem the tremulous vesper star. 

THE WILL AND THE WING 

To have the will to soar, but not the wings, 
Eyes fixed forever on a starry height, 

1 R Whence stately shapes of grand imaginings 

Flash down the splendors of imperial light; 

And yet to lack the charm that makes them ours, 

The obedient vassals of that conquering spell, 
Whose omnipresent and ethereal powers 

2 Encircle Heaven, nor fear to enter Hell ; 

This is the doom of Tantalus — the thirst 
For beauty's balmy fount to quench the firej 

Of the wild passion that our souls have nurst 
In hopeless promptings — unfulfilled desires. 

Yet I would rather in the outward state 
Of Song's immortal temple lay me down, 

A beggar basking by that radiant gate, 

Than bend beneath the haughtiest empire's crown! 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 359 

For sometimes, through the bars, my ravished eyes 
Have caught brief glimpses of a life divine, 

And seen afar, mysterious raptures rise 

Beyond the veil that guards the inmost shrine. 



A DREAM OF THE SOUTH WINDS 

O fresh, how fresh and fair 6 

Through the crystal gulfs of air, 
The fairy South Wind floateth on her subtle wings of balm! 

And the green earth lapped in bliss. 

To the magic of her kiss 
Seems yearning upward fondly through the golden-crested calm I 10 

From the distant Tropic strand, 

Where the billows, bright and bland, 
Go creeping, curling round the palms with sweet, faint under-tune, 

From its fields of purpling flowers 

Still wet with fragrant showers, 16 

The happy South Wind lingering sweeps the royal blooms of 
June . 

All heavenly fancies rise 

On the perfume of her sighs, 
Which steep the inmost spirit in a languor rare and fine, 20 

And a peace more pure than sleep's 

Unto dim, half-conscious deeps, 
Transports me, lulled and dreaming, on its twilight tides divine. 

Those dreams! ah me! the splendor, 
So mystical and tender, 25 

Wherewith like soft heat-lightnings they gird their meaning 
round, 



360 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

And those waters, calling, calling, 

With a nameless charm enthralling, 
Like the ghost of music melting on a rainbow spray of sound ! 
5 

Touch, touch me not, nor wake me, 

Lest grosser thoughts o'ertake me, 
From earth receding faintly with her dreary din and jars — 

What viewless arms caress me? 

What whispered voices bless me, 
With welcomes dropping dewlike from the weird and wondrous 
10 stars? 

Alas! dim, dim, and dimmer 
Grows the preternatural glimmer 
Of that trance the South Wind brought me on her subtle wings 
of balm, 
1 5 For behold ! its spirit flieth, 

And its fairy murmur dieth, 
And the silence closing round me is a dull and soulless calm! 



MINOR POETS 

THE SWORD OF LEE 

Abram J. Ryan (1839-1886) 

Forth from its scabbard, pure and bright 
Flashed the sword of Lee ! 
2 ° Far in front of the deadly fight, 

High o'er the brave in the cause of Right, 
Its stainless sheen, like a beacon light, 
Led us to victory. 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 361 

Out of its scabbard, where full long 

It slumbered peacefully, 
Roused from its rest by the battle's song, 
Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong, 
Guarding the right, avenging the wrong, 

Gleamed the sword of Lee. 

Forth from its scabbard, high in air 

Beneath Virginia's sky — 
And they who saw it gleaming there, 
And knew who bore it, knelt to swear 10 

That where that sword led they would dare 

To follow — and to die. 

Out of its scabbard ! Never a hand 

Waved sword from stain as free ; 
Nor purer sword led braver band, l5 

Nor braver bled for a brighter land, 
Nor brighter land had a cause so grand, 

Nor cause a chief like Lee ! 

Forth from its scabbard ! How we prayed 

A ,-v 

That sword might victor be ! 
And when our triumph was delayed, 
And many a heart grew sore afraid, 
We still hoped on while gleamed the blade 

Of noble Robert Lee. 

Forth from its scabbard all in vain 25 

Bright flashed the sword of Lee ; 
'Tis shrouded now in its sheath again, 
It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain, 
Defeated, yet without a stain, 

Proudly and peacefully. 



262 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

MUSIC IN CAMP 
John Reuben Thompson (1823-1873) 

Two armies covered hill and plain 
Where Rappahannock's waters 

Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain 
Of battle's recent slaughters. 

5 The summer clouds lay pitched like tents 

In meads of heavenly azure ; 
And each dread gun of the elements 
Slept in its hid embrasure. 

The breeze so softly blew, it made 
10 No forest leaf to quiver; 

And the smoke of the random cannonade 
Rolled slowly from the river. 

And now, where circling hills looked down 
With cannon grimly planted, 
15 O'er listless camp and silent town 

The golden sunset slanted. 

When on the fervid air there came 

A strain — now rich, now tender; 
The music seemed itself aflame 
2 With day's departing splendor. 

A Federal band, which eve and morn, 
Played measures brave and nimble, 

Had just struck up, with flute and horn 
And lively clash of cymbal. 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 363 

Down flocked the soldiers to the banks, 

Till, margined by its pebbles, 
One wooded shore was blue with "Yanks," 

And one was gray with "Rebels." 

Then all was still, and then the band, 5 

With movement light and tricksy, 
Made stream and forest, hill and strand, 

Reverberate with "Dixie." 

The conscious stream with burnished glow 

Went proudly o'er its pebbles, 10 

But thrilled throughout its deepest flow 
With yelling of the Rebels. 

Again a pause, and then again 

The trumpets pealed sonorous, 
And "Yankee Doodle" was the strain 15 

To which the shore gave chorus. 

The laughing ripple shoreward flew, 

To kiss the shining pebbles; 
Loud shrieked the swarming Boys in Blue 

Defiance to the Rebels. 2o 

And yet once more the bugles sang 

Above the stormy riot; 
No shout upon the evening rang — 

There reigned a holy quiet. 

The sad, slow stream its noiseless flood 25 

Poured o'er the glistening pebbles; 
All silent now the Yankees stood, 

And silent stood the Rebels. 



364 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

No unresponsive soul had heard 
That plaintive note's appealing, 

So deeply "Home, Sweet Home" had stirred 
The hidden founts of feeling. 

5 Or Blue, or Gray, the soldier sees, 

As by the wand of fairy, 
The cottage 'neath the live-oak trees, 
The cabin by the prairie. 

Or cold, or warm, his native skies 
1 Bend in their beauty o'er him ; 

Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes, 
His loved ones stand before him. 

As fades the iris after rain, 
In April's tearful weather, 

1 5 The vision vanished, as the strain 

And daylight died together. 

But memory, waked by music's art 
Expressed in simplest numbers, 
Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart, 

2 Made light the Rebel's slumbers. 

And fair the form of music shines, 
That bright, celestial creature, 

Who still, 'mid war's embattled lines, 
Gave this one touch of Nature. 

CARCASSONNE 

John Reuben Thompson 

25 "I'm growing old, I've sixty years; 

I've labored all my life in vain : 
In all that time of hopes and fears 
I've failed my dearest wish to gain. 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 365 

I see full well that here below 

Bliss unalloyed there is for none ; 
My prayer will ne'er fulfilment know. 

I never have seen Carcassonne, 

I never have seen Carcassonne ! 5 

"You see the city from the hill, 

It lies beyond the mountains blue, 
And yet to reach it one must still 

Five long and weary leagues pursue, 
And to return as many more ! * ° 

Ah, had the vintage plenteous grown ! 
The grape withheld its yellow store ! 

I shall not look on Carcassonne, 

I shall not look on Carcassonne ! 

"They tell me every day is there 15 

Not more or less than Sunday gay; 
In shining robes and garments fair 

The people walk upon their way. 
One gazes there on castle walls 

As grand as those of Babylon, 20 

A bishop and two generals ! 

I do not know fair Carcassonne, 

I do not know fair Carcassonne ! 

"The vicar's right ; he says that we 

Are ever wayward, weak and blind, 2 5 

He tells us in his homily 

Ambition ruins all mankind ; 
Yet could I two days have spent 

While still the autumn sweetly shone, 
Ah, me ! I might have died content 



366 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

When I had looked on Carcassonne, 
When I had looked on Carcassonne! 

"Thy pardon, Father, I beseech, 
In this my prayer if I offend : 
5 One something sees beyond his reach 

From childhood to his journey's end. 
My wife, our little boy Aignon, 

Have traveled even to Narbonne; 
My grandchild has seen Perpignon, 
10 And I have not seen Carcassonne, 

And I have not seen Carcassonne!" 

So crooned one day, close by Limoux, 

A peasant double-bent with age ; 
"Rise up, my friend," said I, "with you 
15 I'll go upon this pilgrimage." 

We left next morning his abode, 

But (Heaven forgive him) halfway on, 
The old man died upon the road; 
He never gazed on Carcassonne ; 
20 Each mortal has his Carcassonne! 



TRYSTING-PLACE 

John Banister Tabb (1845-1909) 
As stars amid the darkness seen, 
When flows the deepening dawn between 

To caver them from sight, 
O'erleap the spaces of the dark, 
2 5 And, spark to quickening sister-spark, 

Commingle in the light ; 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 367 

E'en so a solitary way 

Do we, Beloved, day by day, 

In weariness and pain, 
Climb, desolate, from steep to steep, 
Till, in the shadowy vale of Sleep, 

Our spirits blend again. 

INTIMATIONS 

John Banister Tabb 
I knew the flowers had dreamed of you, 

And hailed the morning with regret; 
For all their faces with the dew 

Of vanished joy were wet. 

I knew the winds had passed your way, 
Though not a sound the truth betrayed ; 

About their pinions all the day 
A summer fragrance stayed. 

And so, awakening or asleep, 

A memory of lost delight 
By day the sightless breezes keep, 

And silent flowers by night, 

KILLDEE 

John Banister Tabb 

Killdee! Killdee! far o'er the lea 

At twilight comes the cry. 
Killdee ! a marsh-mate answereth 

Across the shallow sky. 

Killdee ! Killdee ! thrills over nae 

A rhapsody of light, 
As star to star gives utterance 

Between the day and night. 



10 



15 



20 



25 



368 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Killdee ! Killdee ! O Memory, 
The twin birds, Joy and Pain, 

Like shadows parted by the sun, 
At twilight meet again ! 



THE WHIPPOORWILL 

Madison Cawein (1865-1914) 

5 Above long woodland ways that led 

To dells the stealthy twilights tread 
The west was hot geranium-red; 

And still, and still, 
Along old lanes, the locusts sow ' 
10 With clustered curls the May-times know, 

Out of the crimson afterglow, 
We heard the homeward cattle low, 
And then the far-off, far-off woe 

Of "whippoorwill !" of "whippoorwill !" 

*5 Beneath the idle beechen bows 

We heard the cow-bells of the cows 
Come slowly jangling toward the house ; 

And still, and still, 
Beyond the light that would not die 

20 Out of the scarlet-haunted sky, 

Beyond the evening star's white eye 

Of glittering chalcedony, 

Drained out of dusk the plaintive cry 

Of "whippoorwill!" of "whippoorwill!" 

25 What is there in the moon, that swims 

A naked bosom o'er the limbs, 
That all the wood with magic dims ? 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 369 

While still, while still, 
Among the trees whose shadows grope 
'Mid ferns and flowers and dewdrops ope — 
Lost in faint deeps of heliotrope 

Above the clover-scented slope — 5 

Retreats, despairing past all hope, 

The whippoorwill, the whippoorwill. 

EVENING ON THE FARM 

Madison Cawein 

From out the hills where twilight stands, 
Above the shadowy pasture-lands, 

With strained and strident cry, 10 

Beneath pale skies that sunset bands, 
The bull-bats fly. 

A cloud hangs over, strange of shape, 
And, colored like the half-ripe grape, 

Seems some uneven strain !5 

On heaven's azure, thin as crape, 
And blue as rain. 

By-ways, that sunset's sardonyx 
O'erflares, and gates the farm-boy clicks, 

Through which the cattle came, 20 

The mullein's stalks seem giant wicks 
Of downy flame. 

From woods no glimmer enters in, 
Above the streams that, wandering, win 

From out the violet hills, 25 

Those haunters of the dusk begin, 
The whippoorwills. 



370 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Adown the dark the firefly marks 
Its flight in golden-emerald sparks; 

And, loosened from its chain, 
The shaggy watch-dog bounds and barks, 
5 And barks again. 

Each breeze brings scents of hill-heaped hay; 
And now an owlet, far away, 

Cries twice or thrice, "T-o-o-w-h-o-o-" ; 
And cool dim moths of mottled gray 
10 Flit through the dew. 

The silence sounds its frog-bassoon, 
Where, on the woodland creek's lagoon, 

Pale as a ghostly girl 
Lost 'mid the trees, looks down the moon, 
1 5 With face of pearl. 

Within the shed where logs, late hewed, 
Smell forest-sweet, and chips of wood 

Make blurs of white and brown, 
The brood-hen huddles her warm brood 
2 Of teetering down. 

The clattering guineas in the tree 
Din for a time ; and quietly 

The hen-house, near the fence, 
Sleeps, save for some brief rivalry 
2 5 Of cocks and hens. 

A cow-bell tinkles by the rails, 

Where, streaming white in foaming pails, 

Milk makes an uddery sound ; 
While overhead the black bat trails 
Around and round. 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 371 

The night is still. The slow cows chew 
A drowsy cud. The bird that flew 

And sang is in its nest. 
It is the time of falling dew, 

Of dreams and rest. 5 

The brown bees sleep ; and round the walk, 
The garden path, from stalk to stalk 

The bungling beetle booms, 
Where two soft shadows stand and talk 

Among the blooms. 1 ° 

The stars are thick ; the light is dead 
That d\ed the west; and Drowsyhead, 

Tuning his cricket-pipe, 
Nods, and some apple, round and red, 

Drops over-ripe. 15 

Now down the road, that shambles by, 
A window, shining like an eye 

Through climbing rose and gourd, 
Shows where Toil sups and these things lie — 20 

His heart and hoard. 



WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 

Born in Charleston, S. C, 1806 ; died there, 1870 

THE ATTACK ON THE BLOCK HOUSE 

From The Yemassee 

Let us go back once more to the Block House and look into 
the condition of its defenders. We remember the breaking of 
the ladder, the only one in the possession of the garrison, which 
led to the upper story of the building. This accident left them 



372 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

in an ugly predicament, since some time must necessarily be 
taken up in its repair, and, in the meanwhile, the forces of the gar- 
rison were divided in the different apartments above and below. 
In the section devoted to the women and children, and somewhat 
5 endangered, as we have seen, from the exposed window and the 
fallen tree, they were its exclusive occupants. The opposite 
chamber held a few of the more sturdy and common-sense 
defenders, while in the great hall below a miscellaneous group of 
fifteen or twenty — the inferior spirits — were assembled. Two or 

10 three of these were busied in patching up the broken ladder, 
which was to renew the communication between the several 
parties, thus, of necessity, thrown asunder. 

The watchers of the fortress from their several loop-holes 
looked forth, east and west, yet saw no enemy. All was soft 

15 in the picture, all was silent in the deep repose of the forest. 
The night was clear and lovely, and the vague and dim beauty 
with which, in the imperfect moonlight, the foliage of the woods 
spread away in distant shadows, or clung and clustered together 
as in groups, shrinking for concealment from her glances, touched 

2 the spirits even of those rude foresters. With them the poetry 
of the natural world is a matter of feeling — with the refined, it 
is an instrument of art. Hence it is, indeed, that the poetry of 
the early ages speaks in the simplest language, while that of civil- 
ization, becoming only the agent for artificial enjoyment, is ornate 

2 5 in its dress and complex in its form and structure. 

The night wore on, still calm and serene in all its aspects 
about the Block House. Far away in the distance, like glimpses 
of a spirit, little sweeps of the river, in its crooked windings, 
flashed upon the eye, streaking, with a sweet relief, the sombre 

3 foliage of the swampy forest through which it stole. A single 

note — the melancholy murmur of the chuckwilPs-widow, the Caro- 
lina whippoorwill — broke fitfully upon the silence, to which it 
gave an added solemnity. That single note indicated to the 
keepers of the fortress a watchfulness corresponding with their 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 373 

own, of another living creature. Whether it were human or 
not — whether it were the deceptive lure and signal of the savage, 
or, in reality, the complaining cry of the solitary and sad night- 
bird which it so resembled was, however, matter of nice question 
with those who listened to the strain. 5 

"They are there — they are there — hidden in that wood," cried 
Grayson — "111 swear it. I've heard them quite too often not to 
know their cunning now. Hector was right after all, boys." 

"What, where?" asked Nichols. 

"There, in the bush to the left of the blasted oak — now, down 10 
to the bluff — and now, by the bay on the right. They are all 
round us." 

4t By what do you know, Wat?" 

"The whippoorwill — that is their cry — their signal." 

"It is the whippoorwill," said Nichols. "There is but one of 15 
them ; you never hear more than one at a time." 

"Pshaw !" responded Grayson ; "you may hear half-a-dozen at 
a time, as I have done a thousand times. But that is from no 
throat of bird. It is the Indian. There is but a single note, you 
perceive ; and it rises from three different quarters. Now it is to 20 
the Chief's Bluff — and now — it comes immediately from the old 
grove of scrubby oak. A few shot there would get an answer." 

"Good! that is just my thought — let us give them a broadside 
and disperse the scoundrels," cried Nichols. 

"Not so fast, Nichols — you swallow your enemy without 25 
asking leave of his teeth. Have you inquired first whether we 
have powder and shot to throw away upon bushes that may be 
empty?" now exclaimed the blacksmith, joining in the question. 

"A prudent thought, that, Grimstead," said Grayson. "We 
have no ammunition to spare in that way. But I have a notion 30 
that may prove of profit. Where is the captain's straw man? 
Here, Granger, bring out Dugdale's trainer." 

The stuffed figure already described was brought forward, the 
window looking in the direction of the grove supposed to shelter 



374 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

the savages was thrown open, and the perfectly indifferent head 
of the automaton thrust incontinently through the opening. The 
ruse was completely successful. The foe could not well resist 
this temptation, and a flight of arrows, penetrating the figure in 
5 every portion of its breast and face, attested the presence of the 
enemy and the truth of his aim. A wild and shuddering cry 
rang through the forest at the same instant — that cry, well known 
as the fearful war-whoop, the sound of which made the marrow 
curdle in the bones of the frontier settler and prompted the 

10 mother with a nameless terror to hug closer to her bosom the 
form of her unconscious infant. It was at once answered from 
side to side, wherever their several parties had been stationed, 
and it struck terror even into the sheltered garrison which heard 
it — such terror as the traveler feels by night when the shrill rattle 

15 of the lurking serpent, with that ubiquity of sound which is one 
of its fearful features, vibrates all around him, leaving him at a 
loss to say in what quarter his enemy lies in waiting and teaching 
him to dread that the very next step which he takes may place 
him within the coil of death. 

20 "Ay, there they are, sure enough — fifty of them at least, and 

we shall have them upon us, after this, monstrous quick, in some 
way or other," was the speech of Grayson, while a brief silence 
through all the party marked the deep influence upon them of 
the summons which they had heard. 

25 "True — and we must be up and doing," said the smith; "we 

can now give them a shot, [Walter] Grayson, for they will dance 
out from the cover, thinking they have killed one of us. The 
savages — they have thrown away some of their powder at least." 
As Grimstead spoke, he drew three arrows with no small difficulty 

30 from the bosom of the figure in which they were buried. 

"Better there than in our ribs. But you are right. Stand 
back for a moment and let me have that loop ; I shall waste no 
shot. Ha ! I see — there is one— I see his arm and the edge of 
his hatchet ; it rests upon his shoulder, I reckon, but that is con- 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 375 

cealed by the brush. He moves — he comes out and slaps his 
hands against his thigh. The red devil, but he shall have it. 
Get ready, now, each at his loop, for if I hurt him they will rush 
out in fury." 

The sharp click of the cock followed the words of Grayson, 5 
who was an able shot, and the next moment the full report came 
burdened with a dozen echoes from the crowding woods around. 
A cry of pain — then a shout of fury and the reiterated whoop 
followed ; and as one of their leaders reeled and sank under the 
unerring bullet, the band in that station, as had been predicted by 10 
Grayson, rushed forth to where he stood, brandishing their 
weapons with ineffectual fury and lifting their wounded comrade, 
as is their general custom, to bear him to a place of concealment 
and preserve him from being scalped, by secret burial, in the 
event of his being dead. They paid for their temerity. Follow- 15 
ing the direction of their leader, whose decision necessarily com- 
manded their obedience, the Carolinians took quite as much 
advantage of the exposure of their enemies as the number of the 
loop-holes in that quarter of the building would admit. Five 
muskets told among the group, and a reiterated shout of fury 2 
indicated the good service which the discharge had done, and 
taught the savages a lesson of prudence, which, in the present 
instance, they had been too ready to disregard. They sank back 
into cover, taking care, however, to remove their hurt companions, 
so that, save by the peculiar cry which marks a loss among them, 2 5 
the garrison were unable to determine what had been the success 
of their discharges. Having driven them back into the brush, 
however, without loss to themselves, the latter were now sanguine, 
where, only a moment before, their confined and cheerless posi- 
tion had taught them a feeling of despondency not calculated to 3 
improve the comforts of their case. 

The Indians had made their arrangements, on the other hand, 
with no little precaution. But they had been deceived and disap- 
pointed. Their scouts, who had previously inspected the fortress, 



376 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

had given a very different account of the defences and the watch- 
fulness of the garrison to what was actually the fact upon their 
appearance. The scouts, however, had spoken truth, and, but 
for the discovery made by Hector, the probability is that the 
5 Block House would have been surprised with little or no difficulty. 
Accustomed to obey Harrison* as their only leader, the foresters 
present never dreamed of preparation for conflict unless under 
his guidance. The timely advice of the trader's wife and the 
confident assumption of command on the part of Walter Grayson 

10 completed their securities. But for this, a confusion of counsels, 
not less than of tongues, would have neutralized all action and 
left them an easy prey, without head or direction, to the knives 
of their insidious enemy. Calculating upon surprise and cunning 
as the only means by which they could hope to balance the 

15 numerous advantages possessed by European warfare over their 
own, the Indians had relied rather more on the suddenness of 
their onset and the craft peculiar to their education than on the 
force of their valor. They felt themselves baffled, therefore, in 
their main hope by the sleepless caution of the garrison, and now 

20 prepared themselves for other means. 

They made their disposition of force with no little judgment. 
Small bodies, at equal distances, under cover, had been stationed 
all about the fortress. With the notes of the whippoorwill they 
had carried on their signals and indicated the several stages of 

2 5 their preparation; while, in addition to this, another band — a sort 
of forlorn hope, consisting of the more desperate, who had 
various motives for signalizing their valor — creeping singly, from 
cover to cover, now reposing in the shadow of a log along the 
ground, now half-buried in a clustering bush, made their way at 

30 length so closely under the walls of the log house as to be com- 
pletely concealed from the garrison, which, unless by the window, 
had no mode of looking directly down upon them. As the 
windows were well watched by their comrades — having once 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 377 

attained their place of concealment — it followed that their posi- 
tion remained entirely concealed from those within. They lay 
in waiting for the favorable moment — silent as the grave, and 
sleepless — ready, when the garrison should determine upon a 
sally, to fall upon their rear; and, in the meanwhile, quietly 5 
preparing dry fuel in quantity, gathering it from time to time and 
piling it against the logs of the fortress, they prepared thus to 
fire the defences that shut them out from their prey. 

There was yet another mode of finding entrance, which has 
been partially glimpsed at already. The scouts had done their 10 
office diligently in more than the required respects. Finding a 
slender pine twisted by a late stoim and scarcely sustained by a 
fragment of its shaft, they applied fire to the rich turpentine 
oozing from the wounded part of the tree, and, carefully directing 
its fall, as it yielded to the fire, they lodged its extremest branches, 15 
as we have already seen, against the wall of the Block House and 
just beneath the window, the only one looking from that quarter 
of the fortress. Three of the bravest of their warriors were 
assigned for scaling this point and securing their entrance, and 
the attack was forborne by the rest of the band, while their 2 
present design, upon which they built greatly, was in progress. 

Let us then turn to this quarter. We have already seen that 
the dangers of this position were duly estimated by Grayson, 
under the suggestion of Granger's wife. Unhappily for its 
defence, the fate of the ladder prevented that due attention to 2 5 
the subject, at once, which had been imperatively called for; and 
the subsequent excitement following the discovery of the imme- 
diate proximity of the Indians had turned the consideration of 
the defenders to the opposite end of the building, from whence 
the partial attack of the enemy, as described, had come. It is 3 
true that the workmen were yet busy with the ladder; but the 
assault had suspended their operations, in the impatient curiosity 
which such an event would necessarily induce, even in the bosom 
of fear. 



378 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

The wife of Grayson,* fully conscious of the danger, was 
alone sleepless in that apartment. The rest of the women, 
scarcely apprehensive of attack at all and perfectly ignorant of 
the present condition of affairs, with all that heedlessness which 
5 marks the unreflecting character, had sunk to the repose (without 
an effort at watchfulness) which previous fatigues had, perhaps, 
made absolutely unavoidable. She, alone, sat thoughtful and 
silent, musing over present prospects — perhaps of the past — but 
still unforgetful of the difficulties and the dangers before her. 

10 With a calm temper she awaited the relief which, with the repair 
of the ladder, she looked for from below. 

In the meantime hearing something of the alarm, together 
with the distant war-whoop, she had looked around her for some 
means of defence, in the event of any attempt being made upon 

15 the window before the aid promised could reach her. But a 
solitary weapon met her eye in a long heavy hatchet, a clumsy 
instrument rather more like the cleaver of a butcher than the 
light and slender tomahawk so familiar to the Indians. Having 
secured this, with the composure of that courage which had been 

20 in great part taught her by the necessities of fortune, she prepared 
to do without other assistance and to forego the sentiment of 
dependence, which is perhaps one of the most marked character- 
istics of her sex. Calmly looking round upon the sleeping and 
defenceless crowd about her, she resumed her seat upon a low 

26 bench in a corner of the apartment, from which she had risen to 
secure the hatchet ; and, extinguishing the only light in the room, 
fixed her eye upon the accessible window, while every thought 
of her mind prepared her for the danger which was at hand. She 
had not long been seated when she fancied that she heard a slight 

30 rustling of the branches of the fallen tree just beneath the 
window. She could not doubt her senses, and her heart swelled 



_ *The wife of Granger, instead of Grayson, is evidently meant here. 
This mistake exists in both the first and the revised 1853 edition. 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 379 

and throbbed with the consciousness of approaching danger. But 
still she was firm ; her spirit grew more confirmed with the coming 
trial; and, coolly throwing the slippers from her feet, grasping 
firmly her hatchet at the same time, she softly arose, and, keep- 
ing close in the shadow of the wall, she made her way to a recess, 5 
a foot or so from the entrance, to which it was evident some one 
was cautiously approaching along the attenuated body of the 
yielding pine. In a few moments, and a shadow darkened the 
opening. She edged more closely to the point and prepared for 
the intruder. She now beheld the head of the enemy, a fierce 10 
and foully painted savage — the war-tuft rising up into a ridge, 
something like a comb, and his face smeared with colors in a style 
the most ferociously grotesque. Still she could not strike, for, 
as he had not penetrated the window and as its entrance was quite 
too small to enable her to strike with any hope of success at any 15 
distance through it, she felt that the effort would be wholly 
without certainty ; and failure might be of the worst consequence. 
Though greatly excited and struggling between doubt and determi- 
nation, she readily saw what would be the error of any precipi- 
tation. But even as she mused thus apprehensively, the cunning 2 
savage laid his hand upon the sill of the window, the better to 
raise himself to its level. That sight tempted her, in spite of 
her better sense, to the very precipitation she had desired to avoid. 
In the moment that she saw the hand of the red man upon the 
sill, the hatchet descended under an impulse scarcely her own. 2 5 
She struck too quickly. The blow was given with all her force 
and would certainly have separated the hand from the arm had 
it taken effect. But the quick eye of the Indian caught a glimpse 
of her movement at the very moment in which it was made, and 
the hand was withdrawn before the hatchet descended. The 3 
steel sank deep into the soft wood — so deeply that she could 
not disengage it. To try at this object would have exposed her 
at once to his weapon, and leaving it where it stuck, she sunk 
back again into shadow. 



380 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

What now was she to do ? To stay where she was would be 
of little avail; but to cry out to those below and seek to fly was 
equally unproductive of good, besides warning the enemy of the 
defencelessness of their condition and thus inviting a renewal of 
5 the attack. The thought came to her with the danger; and, 
without a word, she maintained her position, in waiting for the 
progress of events. As the Indian had also sunk from sight, 
and some moments had now elapsed without his reappearance, she 
determined to make another effort for the recovery of the hatchet. 
10 She grasped it by the handle, and in the next moment the hand 
of the savage was upon her own. He felt that his grasp was on 
the fingers of a woman, and in a brief word and something of a 
chuckle, while he still maintained his hold upon it, he conveyed 
intelligence of the fact to those below. But it was a woman 

1 5 with a man's spirit with whom he contended, and her endeavor 

was successful to disengage herself. The same success did not 
attend her effort to recover the weapon. In the brief struggle 
with her enemy it had become disengaged from the wood, and 
while both strove to seize it, it slipped from their mutual hands, 

2 o and sliding over the sill, in another instant was heard rattling 

through the intervening bushes. Descending upon the ground 
below, it became the spoil of those without, whose murmurs of 
gratulation she distinctly heard. But now came the tug of 
difficulty. The Indian, striving at the entrance, was necessarily 

2 5 encouraged by the discovery that his opponent was not a man ; 

and assured, at the same time, by the forbearance on the part of 
those within to strike him effectually down from the tree, he now 
resolutely endeavored to effect his entrance. His head was 
again fully in sight of the anxious woman — then his shoulders ; 

3 and, at length, taking a firm grasp upon the sill, he strove to 

elevate himself by muscular strength, so as to secure him 
sufficient purchase for the entrance at which he aimed. 

What could she do — weaponless, hopeless? The prospect 
was startling and terrible enough ; but she was a strong-minded 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 381 

woman, and impulse served her when reflection would most 
probably have taught her to fly. She had but one resource ; and 
as the Indian had gradually thrust one hand forward for the hold 
upon the sill and raised the other up to the side of the window, 
she grasped the one nighest to her own. She grasped it firmly 5 
with all her might, and to advantage, as, having lifted himself 
on tiptoe for the purpose of ascent, he had necessarily lost much 
of the control which a secure hold for his feet must have given 
him. Her grasp sufficiently assisted him forward, to lessen still 
more greatly the security of his feet, while, at the same time, 10 
though bringing him still farther into the apartment, placing him 
in such a position — half in air — as to defeat much of the muscular 
exercise which his limbs would have possessed in any other situa- 
tion. Her weapon now would have been all-important; and the 
brave woman mentally deplored the precipitancy with which she 15 
had acted in the first instance and which had so unhappily deprived 
her of its use. But self-reproach was unavailing now, and she 
was satisfied if she could be able to retain her foe in his present 
position; by which, keeping him out, or in and out, as she did, 
she necessarily excluded all other foes from the aperture which 2 
he so completely filled up. The intruder, though desirous enough 
of entrance before, was rather reluctant to obtain it now, under 
existing circumstances. He strove desperately to effect a retreat, 
but had advanced too far, however, to be easily successful; and, 
in his confusion and dijquiet, he spoke to those below in his own 2 5 
language, explaining his difficulty and directing their movement 
to his assistance. A sudden rush along the tree indicated to the 
conscious sense of the woman the new danger in the approach of 
additional enemies, who must not only sustain but push forward 
the one with whom she contended. This warned her at once of 30 
the necessity of some sudden procedure, if she hoped to do 
anything for her own and the safety of those around her — the 
women and the children, whom, amid all the contest, she had 
never once alarmed. Putting forth all her strength, therefore, 



10 



382 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

though nothing in comparison with that of him whom she opposed, 
had he been in a condition to exert it, she strove to draw him still 
farther across the entrance, so as to exclude, if possible, the 
approach of those coming behind him. She hoped to gain time — 
sufficient time for those preparing the ladder to come to her 
relief; and, with this hope, for the first time she called aloud to 
Grayson and and her husband. 

The Indian, in the meanwhile, derived the support for his 
person, as well from the grasp of the woman as from his own 
hold upon the sill of the window. Her effort, necessarily draw- 
ing him still farther forward, placed him so completely in the way 
of his allies that they could do him little service while things 
remained in this situation ; and, to complete the difficulties of his 
predicament, while they busied themselves in several efforts at 

15 his extrication, the branches of the little tree resting against the 
dwelling, yielding suddenly to the unusual weight upon it — 
trembling and sinking away at last — cracked beneath the burden, 
and snapping off from its several holds, fell from under them, 
dragging against the building in the progress down ; thus break - 

20 ing their fall, but cutting off all their hope from this mode of 
entrance and leaving their comrade awkwardly poised aloft, able 
neither to enter nor to depart from the window. The tree finally 
settled heavily upon the ground; and with it went the three 
savages who had so readily ascended to the assistance of their 
comrade, bruised and very much hurt ; while he, now without any 
support but that which he derived from the sill and what little 
his feet could secure from the irregular crevices between the logs 
of which the house had been built, was hung in air, unable to 
advance except at the will of his woman opponent and dreading 
a far worse fall from his eminence than that which had already 
happened to his allies Desperate with his situation, he thrust 
his, arm, as it was still held by the woman, still farther into the 
window, and this enabled her with both hands to secure and 
strengthen the grasp which she had originally taken upon it. 



25 



30 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 383 

This she did with a new courage and strength derived from the 
voices below, by which she understood a promise of assistance. 
Excited and nerved, she drew the extended arm of the Indian, in 
spite of all his struggles, directly over the sill, so as to turn the 
elbow completely down upon it. With her whole weight thus 5 
employed, bending down to the floor to strengthen herself to the 
task, she pressed the arm across the window until her ears heard 
the distinct, clear crack of the bone — until she heard the groan 
and felt the awful struggles of the suffering wretch, twisting 
himself round with all his effort to obtain for the shattered arm 10 
a natural and relaxed position, and, with this object, leaving his 
hold upon everything; only sustained, indeed, by the grasp of 
his enemy. But the movement of the woman had been quite too 
sudden, her nerves too firm and her strength too great to suffer 
him to succeed. The jagged splinters of the broken limb were 15 
thrust up, lacerating and tearing through flesh and skin, while a 
howl of the acutest agony attested the severity of that suffering 
which could extort such an acknowledgment from the American 
savage. He fainted in his pain, and as the weight increased upon 
the arm of the woman, the nature of her sex began to resume its 2 
sway. With a shudder of every fibre, she released her hold upon 
him. The effort of her soul was over — a strange sickness came 
upon her; and she was just conscious of a crashing fall of the 
heavy body among the branches of the tree at the foot of the 
window, when she staggered back fainting into the arms of her 2 5 
husband, who just at that moment ascended to her relief. 



384 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY 

Born in Baltimore, 1795; died in Newport, R. L, 1870 

THE MASTER AND MISTRESS OF SWALLOW BARN 

From Swallow Bam 

The master of this lordly domain is Frank Meriwether. He 
is now in the meridian of life — somewhere about forty-five. 
Good cheer and an easy temper tell well upon him. The first 
has given him a comfortable, portly figure, and the latter a 
5 contemplative turn of mind, which inclines him to be lazy and 
philosophical. 

He has some right to pride himself on his personal appearance, 
for he has a handsome face, with a dark-blue eye and a fine 
intellectual brow. His head is growing scant of hair on the 
crown, which induces him to be somewhat particular in the 
management of his locks in that locality, and these are assuming 
a decided silvery hue. 

It is pleasant to see him when he is going to ride to the Court 
House on business occasions. He is then apt to make his 
appearance in a coat of blue broadcloth, astonishingly glossy, 
and with an unusual amount of plaited ruffle strutting through 
the folds of a Marseilles waistcoat. A worshipful finish is given 
to this costume by a large straw hat, lined with green silk. There 
is a magisterial fullness in his garments which betokens condition 
20 in the world, and a heavy bunch of seals, suspended by a chain of 
gold, jingles as he moves, pronouncing him a man of superfluities. 

[He is too lazy to try to go into politics, but did once make 
a pretence of studying law in Richmond, and is a somewhat 
autocratic justice of the peace.] 

* * * Having in this way qualified himself to assert and 
maintain his rights, he came to his estate, upon his arrival at age, 
a very model of landed gentlemen. Since that time his avocations 
have had a certain literary tincture; for having settled himself 



15 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 385 

down as a married man and got rid of his superfluous foppery, 
he rambled with wonderful assiduity through a wilderness of 
romances, poems, and dissertations, which are now collected in 
his library and, with their battered blue covers, present a lively 
type of an army of continentals at the close of the war, or a 
hospital of invalids. These have all, at last, given way to the 
newspapers—a miscellaneous study very attractive and engrossing 
to country gentlemen. This line of study has rendered Men- 
wether a most perilous antagonist in the matter of legislative 

proceedings. 

A landed proprietor, with a good house and a host of servants, 
is naturally a hospitable man. A guest is one of his daily wants. 
A friendly face is a necessary of life, without which the heart is 
apt to starve, or a luxury without which it grows parsimonious. 
Men who are isolated from society by distance feel these wants 
by an instinct and are grateful for the opportunity to relieve them. 
In Meriwether the sentiment goes beyond this. It has, besides, 
something dialectic in it. His house is open to everybody, as 
freely almost as an inn. But to see him when he has had the 
good fortune to pick up an intelligent, educated gentleman,— and 2 
particularly one who listens well !— a respectable, assentatious 
stranger ! All the better if he has been in the Legislature, and 
better still if in Congress. Such a person caught within the 
purlieus of Swallow Barn may set down one week's entertain- 
ment as certain,— inevitable,— and as many more as he likes— 2 5 
the more the merrier. He will know something of the quality 
of Meriwether's rhetoric before he is gone. 

Then again, it is very pleasant to see Frank's kind and con- 
siderate bearing towards his servants and dependents. His slaves 
appreciate this and hold him in most affectionate reverence, 30 
and, therefore, are not only contented, but happy under his 

dominion. * * * 

He is somewhat distinguished as a breeder of blooded horses ; 
and ever since the celebrated race between Eclipse and Henry 



10 



386 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

has taken to this occupation with a renewed zeal, as a matter 
affecting the reputation of the State. It is delightful to hear 
him expatiate upon the value, importance, and patriotic bearing 
of this employment and to listen to all his technical lore touching 
the mystery of horsecraft. He has some fine colts in training, 
which are committed to the care of a pragmatical old negro, 
named Carey, who, in his reverence for the occupation, is the 
perfect shadow of his master. He and Frank hold grave and 
momentous consultations upon the affairs of the stable, in such 
a sagacious strain of equal debate that it would puzzle a spectator 
to tell which was the leading member of the council. Carey 
thinks he knows a great deal more upon the subject than his 
master, and their frequent intercourse has begot a familiarity in 
the old negro which is almost fatal to Meriwether's supremacy. 

15 The old man feels himself authorized to maintain his positions 
according to the freest parliamentary form, and sometimes with 
a violence of asseveration that compels his master to abandon 
his ground, purely out of faint-heartedness. Meriwether gets a 
little nettled by Carey's doggedness, but generally turns it off in 

20 a laugh. I was in the stable with him a few mornings after my 
arrival, when he ventured to expostulate with the venerable groom 
upon a professional point, but the controversy terminated in its 
customary way. "Who sot you up, Master Frank, to tell me 
how to fodder that 'ere cretur, when I as good as nursed you on 

2 5 my knee?" 

"Well, tie up your tongue, you old mastiff," replied Frank, 
as he walked out of the stable, "and cease growling, since you 
will have it your own way" ; and then, as we left the old man's 
presence, he added, with an affectionate chuckle, "a faithful old 

30 cur, too, that snaps at me out of pure honesty; he has not many 
years left, and it does no harm to humor him." 

Whilst Frank Meriwether amuses himself with his quiddities 
and floats through life upon the current of his humor, his dame, 
my excellent cousin Lucretia, takes charge of the household 






THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 387 

affairs, as one who has a reputation to stake upon her adminis- 
tration. She has made it a perfect science, and great is her 
fame in the dispensation thereof ! 

Those who have visited Swallow Barn will long remember 
the morning stir, of which the murmurs arose even unto the 
chambers and fell upon the ears of the sleepers : the dry rubbing 
of floors, and even the waxing of the same until they were like 
ice; and the grinding of coffee mills; and the gibber of ducks 
and chickens and turkeys ; and all the multitudinous concert of 
homely sounds. And then, her breakfasts ! I do not wish to 
be counted extravagant, but a small regiment might march in 
upon her without disappointment; and I would put them for 
excellence and variety against anything that ever was served upon 
platter. Moreover, all things go like clockwork. She rises with 
the lark and infuses an early vigor into the whole household. 
And yet she is a thin woman to look upon, and a feeble ; with a 
sallow complexion, and a pair of animated black eyes which 
impart a portion of fire to a countenance otherwise demure from 
the paths worn across it in the. frequent travel of a low-country 
ague. But, although her life has been somewhat saddened by 
such visitations, my cousin is too spirited a woman to give up to 
them; for she is therapeutical in her constitution and considers 
herself a full match for any reasonable tertian in the world. 
Indeed, I have sometimes thought that she took more pride in 
her leechcraft than becomes a Christian woman; she is even a 
little vainglorious. For, to say nothing of her skill in compound- 
ing simples, she has occasionally brought down upon her head the 
sober remonstrances of her husband by her pertinacious faith in 
the efficacy of certain spells in cases of intermittent. But there 
is no reasoning against her experience. She can enumerate the 
cas es — "and men may say what they choose about its being con- 
trary to reason, and all that: it is their way! But seeing is 
believing — nine scoops of water in the hollow of the hand, from 
the sycamore spring, for three mornings, before sunrise, and a 



388 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

cup of strong coffee with lemon juice will break an ague, try it 
when you will." In short, as Frank says, "Lucretia will die in 
that creed." 

I am occasionally up early enough to be witness to her morn- 
6 ing regimen, which, to my mind, is rather tyrannically enforced 
against the youngsters of her numerous family, both white and 
black. She is in the habit of preparing some death-routing decoc- 
tion for them, in a small pitcher, and administering it to the whole 
squadron in succession, who severally swallow the dose with a 
10 most ineffectual effort at repudiation and gallop off with faces all 
rue and wormwood. 

Everything at Swallow Barn that falls within the superin- 
tendence of my cousin Lucretia is a pattern of industry. In 
fact, I consider her the very priestess of the American system, 
15 for, with her, the protection of manufactures is even more of a 
passion than a principle. Every here and there over the estate 
may be seen, rising in humble guise above the shrubbery, the 
rude chimney of a log cabin, where all the livelong day the plain- 
tive moaning of the spinning wheel rises fitfully upon the breeze, 
20 like the fancied notes of a hobgoblin, as they are sometimes 
imitated in the stories with which wc frighten children. In these 
laboratories the negro women are employed in preparing yarn for 
the loom, from which is produced not only a comfortable supply 
of winter clothing for the working people, but some excellent 
25 carpets for the house. 

It is refreshing to behold how affectionately vain our good 
hostess is of Frank and what deference she shows to his judgment 
in all matters except those that belong to the home department; 
for there she is confessedly, and without appeal, the paramount 
30 power. It seems to be a dogma with her that he is the very 
"first man in Virginia," an expression which in this region has 
grown into an emphatic provincialism. Frank, in return, is a 
devout admirer of her accomplishments, and although he does 
not pretend to an ear for music, he is in raptures at her skill on 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 389 

the harpsichord when she plays at night for the children to 
dance; and he sometimes sets her to singing 'The Twins of 
Latona," and "Old Towler," and "The Rose-Tree in Full 
Bearing" (she does not study the modern music) for the enter- 
tainment of his company. On these occasions he stands by the 
instrument and nods his head as if he comprehended the airs. 
* * * * * * * 

The gentlemen of Virginia live apart from each other. They 
are surrounded by their bondsmen and dependents; and the 
customary intercourse of society familiarizes their minds to the 
relation of high and low degree. They frequently meet in the 
interchange of a large and thriftless hospitality, in which the 
forms of society are foregone for its comforts, and the business 
of life thrown aside for the enjoyment of its pleasures. Their 
halls are large, and their boards ample; and surrounding the 
great family hearth, with its immense burthen of blazing wood 
casting a broad and merry glare over the congregated household 
and the numerous retainers, a social winter party in Virginia, 
affords a tolerable picture of feudal munificence. 

Frank Meriwether is a good specimen of the class I have 
described. He seeks companionship with men of ability and is 
a zealous disseminator of the personal fame of individuals who 
have won any portion of renown in the State Sometimes I 
even think he exaggerates a little when descanting upon the 
prodigies of genius that have been reared in the Old Dominion ; 
and he manifestly seems to consider that a young man who has 
astonished a whole village in Virginia by the splendor of his 
talents must, of course, be known throughout the United States ; 
for he frequently opens his eyes at me with an air of astonish- 
ment when I happen to ask him who is the marvel he is 
speaking of. 

I observe, moreover, that he has a constitutional fondness for 
paradoxes and does not scruple to adopt and republish any 
apothegm that is calculated to startle one by its novelty. He 



390 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

has a correspondence with several old friends who were with 
him at college and who have now risen into an extensive political 
notoriety in the State; these gentlemen furnish him with many 
new currents of thought, along which he glides with a happy 
5 velocity. He is essentially meditative in his character and some- 
what given to declamation ; and these traits have communicated 
a certain measured and deliberate gesticulation to his discourse. 
I have frequently seen him after dinner stride backward and 
forward across the room for some moments, wrapped in thought, 

10 and then fling himself upon the sofa and come out with some 
weighty doubt, expressed with a solemn emphasis. In this form 
he lately began a conversation, or rather a speech, that for a 
moment quite disconcerted me. "After all," said he, as if he 
had been talking to me before, although these were the first words 

16 he uttered — then making a parenthesis, so as to qualify what he 
was going to say — "I don't deny that the steamboat is destined to 
produce valuable results, but, after all, I much question (and here 
he bit his upper lip, and paused an instant) if we are not better 
without it. I declare, I think it strikes deeper at the supremacy 

20 of the States than most persons are willing to allow. This 
annihilation of space, sir, is not to be desired. Our protection 
against the evils of consolidation consists in the very obstacles 
to our intercourse. Splatterthwaite Dubbs of Dinwiddie (or 
some such name; Frank is famous for quoting the opinions of 

25 his contemporaries. This Splatterthwaite, I take it, was some 
old college chum who had got into the legislature and, I dare say, 
made pungent speeches) made a good remark — that the home 
material of Virginia was never so good as when her roads were 
at their worst." And so Frank went on with quite a harangue, 

3 to which Hone of the company replied one word for fear we might 
get into a dispute. Everybody seems to understand the advantage 
of silence when Meriwether is inclined to be expatiatory. 

This strain of philosophizing has a pretty marked influence in 
the neighborhood, for I perceive that Frank's opinions are very 






THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 391 

much quoted. There is a set of under-talkers about these large 
country establishments who are very glad to pick up the crumbs 
of wisdom which fall from a rich man's table-secondhand 
philosophers, who trade upon other people's stock. Some of 
these have a natural bias to this venting of upper opinions by 
reason of certain dependences in the way of trade and favor ; 
others have it from affinity of blood, which works like a charm 
over a whole county. Frank stands related, by some tie ot 
marriage or mixture of kin, to an infinite train of conn f ct !^ 
spread over the State: and it is curious to learn what a decided 
hue this gives to the opinions of the district. 

JOHN ESTEN COOKE 
Born in Winchester, Va., 1830; died in Clarke County, Va., 1886 

AN INCIDENT AT GOVERNOR FAUQUIER'S BALL 

From The Virginia Comedians 

So the day* passed and evening drew on slowly and the night 
came. Let us leave the bustling crowd hurrying toward the 
theater— leave the taverns overflowing with revelers— let us 
traverse Gloucester Street and enter the grounds, through which 
a fine white graveled walk leads to the palace. On each side of 
this walk a row of linden trees are ornamented with variegated 
lanterns, and ere long these lanterns light up lovely figures of fair 
dames and gallant gentlemen, walking daintily from the carriage 
portal to the palace. Let us enter. Before us have passed many 
guests, and the large apartments, with their globe lamps and 
chandeliers and portraits of the king and queen and Chelsea 
figures and red damask chairs and numerous card tables, are 

^The day of the meeting of the House of Burgesses at Williams- 
burg, Va. 



10 



15 



20 



392 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

already filling with the beauty and grace of that former brilliant 
and imposing society. 

See this group of lovely young girls, with powdered hair 
brushed back from their tender temples, and snowy necks and 
5 shoulders glittering with diamond necklaces ; see the queer patches 
on their chins close by the dimples ; see their large falling sleeves 
and yellow lace and bodices with their silken network; see their 
gowns, looped back from the satin underskirt, ornamented with 
flowers in golden thread ; their trains and fans and high red-heeled 

1 ° shoes, and all their puffs and furbelows and flounces ; see, above 

all, their gracious smiles, as they flirt their fans and dart their 
fatal glances at the magnificently clad gentlemen in huge 
ruffles and silk stockings, and long, broad-flapped waistcoats 
and embroidered coats, with sleeves turned back to the elbow 

15 and profusely laced; see how they ogle and speak with dainty 
softness under their breath and sigh and smile, and ever continue 
playing on the hapless cavaliers the dangerous artillery of their 
brilliant eyes. 

Or see this group of young country gentlemen, followers of 

20 the fox, with their ruddy faces and laughing voices; their queues 
secured by plain black ribbon; their strong hands, accustomed to 
heavy buckskin riding gloves; their talk of hunting, crops, the 
breed of sheep and cattle, and the blood of horses. 

Or pause a moment near that group of dignified gentlemen, 

2 5 with dresses plain though rich, and lordly brows and clear bright 

eyes, strong enough to look upon the sun of royalty, and, 
undazzled, see the spots disfiguring it. Hear them converse 
calmly, simply, like giants knowing their strength ; how slow and 
clear and courteous their tones ! how plain their manners ! 
30 Lastly, see the motley throng of the humbler planters, some 
of the tradesmen, factors as they were called, mingled with the 
yeomen ; see their wives and daughters, fair and attractive but 
so wholly outshone by the little powdered damsels; last of all, 



10 



15 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 393 

though not least, see his bland Excellency, Governor Fauquier, 
gliding among the various groups and smiling on everybody. 

Let us endeavor to catch some of the words uttered by these 
various personages, now so long withdrawn from us in the far 
p as t_that silent, stern, inexorable past, which swallows up so 
many noble forms and golden voices and high deeds, and which 
in turn will obliterate us and our little or great actions, as it has 
effaced— though Heaven be thanked, not wholly!— what illus- 
trated and adorned those times which we are now trying to depict. 
And first let us listen to this group of quiet, calm-looking men; 
fame has spoken loudly of them all. 

"Your reverend opponent really got the better of you, I think, 
sir/' says a quiet, plain, simple gentleman with a fine face and 
eye. "The Twopenny-Act made out too clear a case, in mere 
point of law, to need the afterclap." 

"True, sir," his friend replies, smiling so pleasantly that his 
very name seemed to indicate his character, "but I would willingly 
be unhorsed again by the Reverend Mr. Camm in a cause so good. 
Everything concerning Virginia, you know, is dear to me. I 
believe some of my friends consider me demented on the sub- 20 
ject— or at least call me the 'Virginia Antiquary.' " 

"I consider it a very worthy designation, sir; and in spite of 
my opinion that The Colonel's Dismounted' is an appropriate 
title,— I cannot be otherwise than frank ever,— I am fully con- 
vinced that equity was with you. But here comes our noble 25 
Roman." 

As he speaks, a tall, fine-looking gentleman approaches, with 
an eagle eye, a statuesque head, inclined forward as though listen 
ing courteously, a smile upon his lips, his right hand covered with 
a black bandage 

"What news from Westmoreland, pray, seigneur of Chan- 
tilly?" asks the opponent of the Reverend Mr. Camm. "Do they 
think of testing the Twopenny- Act by suits for damages?" 
"No, sir," says the newcomer, very courteously; "I believe, 



30 



394 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

however, that in Hanover County the Reverend Mr. Maury has 
brought suit against the collector." 

"Ah, then we shall get some information from our friend from 
Caroline ! See, here he is. Good day, sir !" 
5 He who now approaches has the same calm, benignant expres- 

sion as the rest — an expression, indeed, which seems to have 
dwelt always on those serene noble faces of that period, so full 
of stirring events and strong natures. The face was not unlike 
that which we fancy Joseph Addison's must have been ; a quiet, 
10 serene smile, full of courtesy and sweetness, illuminated it, 
attracting people of all ages and conditions. When he speaks, 
it is in the vox argentea of Cicero — a gentle stream of sound, 
rippling in the sunlight. 

"What from Caroline, pray?" asks the 'dismounted Colonel,' 
!5 pressing the hand held out to him with great warmth. "Do the 
clergy speak of bringing suit to recover damages at once, for the 
acts of '55 and '58?" 

"I believe net," the gentleman from Caroline replies, cour- 
teously in his soft voice ; "but have you not heard the news from 
20 Hanover?" 

"No, sir; pray let us hear — " 

"In the action brought by the Reverend Mr. Maury against 
the collector, a young man of that county has procured a 
triumphant verdict for the collector." 
25 "For the collector?" 

"Yes!" 

"Against the clergv?" 
"Yes!" 

"You said a triumphant verdict ?" 
"One penny damages." 

An expression of extreme delight diffuses itself over the face 
of the gentleman receiving this reply. 

"And what is the name of the young man who has worked 
this wonder?" 



30 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 



395 



"Mr. Patrick Henry." 
"I have no acquaintance with him." 

"I think you will have, however, sir. His speech is said to 
have been something wonderful ; the people carried him on their 
shoulders, the parsons fled from the bench— I found the county, 5 
as I passed through, completely crazy with delight. But what is 
that small volume peeping from your pocket, sir?" adds the 
speaker, with a smile at the abstracted and delighted expression 
of his interlocutor. 

"An Anacreon, from Glasgow, sir," says the other, almost 10 
forgetting his delight at the issue of the parsons' cause, as he 
takes the book from his pocket and opens it. It is a small thin 
volume, with an embossed back, covered with odd gilt figures; 
and the Greek type is of great size and very black and heavy. 

"Greek?" says the gentleman from Caroline, smiling serenely. 15 
"Ah, I fear it is Hebrew to me ! I may say, however, that from 
what I have heard, this young Mr. Henry is a fair match for a 
former orator of that language — Demosthenes !" 

"Well, sir," says the Roman, "if he is Demosthenes, yonder 
is our valiant Alexander!" 20 

"Who is he?" 

"Is that fine face not familiar?" 

"Ah, Colonel Washington! I know him but slightly; yet, 
assuredly, his countenance gives promise of a noble nature; he 
has certainly already done great service to the government, and 25 
I wonder his Majesty has not promoted him. His promotion 
will, however, await further services, I fancy." 

"Ah, gentlemen, you are welcome!" says a courteous voice; 
"Mr. Wythe, Colonel Bland, Mr. Lee, Mr. Pendleton, I rejoice 
to see you all: welcome, welcome!" And his Excellency, Gov- 3 
ernor Fauquier, with courtly urbanity, presses the hands of his 
guests. 

"You will find card tables in the next room, should you fancy 



396 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

joining in the fascinating amusements of tictac and spadille," he 
adds, blandly smiling as he passes on. 

The next group which we approach is quite large, and all talk 
at once, with hearty laughter and rough frankness ; and this talk 
5 concerns itself with plantation matters — the blood of horses, 
breeds of cattle, and the chase. Let us listen, even if in the 
uproar we can catch nothing very connected, and at the risk of 
finding ourselves puzzled by the jumble of questions and replies. 

"The three-field system, I think, sir, has the advantage over 
10 all others of—" 

"Oh, excellent, sir! I never saw a finer leaf, and when we 
cut it—" 

"Suddenly the blood rushed over his frill, and we found he 
had broken his collar bone !" 
15 "The finest pack, I think, in all Prince George — " 

"By George! — " 

"He's a fine fellow and has, I think, cause to congratulate 
himself on his luck. His wife is the loveliest girl I ever saw, 
and—" 
20 "Trots like lightning!' 

"Well, well, nothing astonishes me! The world must be 
coming to an end — " 

"On Monday forenoon — " 

"On the night before — " 
25 "They say the races near Jamestown will be more crowded 

this year than ever. I announced — " 

"The devil !— " 

"Good evening, sir ; I hope your mare will be in good condi- 
tion for the race — " 
30 "To destruction, sir— I tell you such a black act would ruin 

the ministry — even Granville — " 

"Loves his pipe — " 

"The races—" 

"Hedges—" 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 397 

"Distanced — " 

"I know his pedigree; you are mistaken — by Sir Archy, 
dam—" 

"The odds? I close with you. Indeed, I think I could 
afford—" 5 

"Ah, gentlemen!" a courteous voice interposes, amid the 
uproar, "talking of races? Mr. Hamilton, Mr. Lane, welcome 
to my poor house! You will find card tables in the adjoining 
room." And his bland Excellency passes on. 

Space fails us or we might set down for the reader's amuse- 10 
ment some of the quiet and pleasant talk of the well-to-do 
factors and humbler planters and their beautiful wives and 
daughters. We must pass on; but let us pause a moment yet 
to hear what this group of magnificently dressed young dames 
and their gay gallants are saying. 15 

[Here follows an account of the talk of a group of beaux and belles 
on certain pretty verses which a young poet among them has written in 
compliment of the ladies. After the verses have been read aloud by one 
of the gallants, the question arises as to the identity of the lady poetically 
named "Cordelia" and the gentleman called "Dion." The lady, so one of 
the "knights" informs the group, is Miss Clare Lee, and the gentleman 
is Mr. Champ Effingham. Both are absent, but it appears that Mr. Effing- 
ham has diverted his attentions from Miss Lee to a popular actress, 
Beatrice Hallam, then playing at the local theater. Effingham is the 
aristocratic young lord of "Effingham Hall" near-by.] 

"But I must be permitted to say," goes on the chivalric 
defender of the absent, "that Miss Clare Lee fully deserves her 
character ; the comparison of that lovely girl, ladies, to Cordelia — 
Cordelia, the sweetest of all Shakespeare's characters — seems to 
me nothing more than justice." 

The gentlemen greet this with enthusiastic applause, for our 
little, long-lost-sight-of heroine had subdued all hearts. 

"As regards Mr. Effingham," adds Clare's knight, "I shall be 
pardoned for not saying anything, since he is not present." 

"Then I will say something," here interposes a small gentle- 2 5 
man, with a waistcoat reaching to his knees and profusely laced, 



20 



398 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

like all the rest of his clothes, — indeed, the richness of his 
costume was distressing, — "but I will say, sir, that Mr. Effing- 
ham's treatment of that divine creature, Miss Clare Lee, is 
shameful." 
5 "How?" asks the ladies, agitating their fans and scenting a 

delicious bit of scandal. 

"Why," says the gentleman in the long waistcoat, squaring 
himself, so to speak, and greatly delighted at the sudden acces- 
sion to his importance — the general opinion being that he was 
10 somewhat insignificant, "why, ladies, he has been running after 
that little jade, Miss Hallam!" 

"Miss Hallam !" cry the ladies, in virtuous ignorance, though 
nothing was more notorious than the goings-on of our friend 
Mr. Effingham,— "Miss Hallam!" 
15 "Precisely, ladies." 

"The actress?" 
"Yes." 

"A playing girl !" exclaims a lady of, say, thirty, and cover- 
ing her face as she spoke. 
20 "Falling in love with her !" 

"Possible?" 

"Haven't you heard all about it?" 
This home question causes a flutter and a silence. 
"I'll tell you, then," continues the gentleman in the long waist- 
25 coat, "I'll tell you all about the doings of 'Dion, the thunderbolt 
of war, and prince of modern wits.' He, the thunderbolt of 
war? — preposterous! He, the prince of wits? — ludicrous! He 
may be the king of coxcombs, the coryphaeus of dandies — but 
that is all." 
SO The gentlemen standing around listen to these words with 

some amusement and more disgust. It is plain that some secret 
spite actuates the gentleman in the long waistcoat. 

"Well, let us hear Mr. Effingham's crimes," says Laura. 
"By all means," adds Isadora. 



10 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 399 

"Of course," says Myrtilla. 

"He has been making himself ridiculous about that actress," 
continues the chronicler, "and, I have even heard, designs to 
marry her." 

The ladies make a movement to express surprise and indig- 
nation, but, after a moment's reflection, suppress this somewhat 
ambiguous exhibition of their feelings. 

"He's been at the Raleigh Tavern, making love to her for a 
month," continues the narrator. 

"At the tavern?" 

"Yes, in town here." 

"Did anyone ever !" says the lady of uncertain age. 

"Never ! never !" chime in the virtuous little damsels, shaking 
their heads solemnly. 

"He has left his family," the gentleman in the long waistcoat 15 
goes on, indignantly, "and they are dying of grief." 

"Oh, can it be !" 

"Certainly, madam. Why are they not here to-night?" 

"Very true." 

"Why is Clare Lee, the victim of his insincerity, away, pray 20 
tell me ! They are not here — they are not coming, madam." 

At the same moment, the usher announces the squire, Miss 
Alethea, and Miss Clare Lee — Master Willie and Kate being too 
small to be seen, which the squire had warned them of. The 
squire is as bluff as ever and makes his salutation to his Excel- 2 5 
lency with great cordiality — Clare is pale and absent, presenting 
thus a singular contrast to Henrietta, who enters a moment after- 
ward, brilliant, imposing, and smiling, like a queen receiving the 
homage of the nobility around her throne. She sweeps on, 
leaning on the arm of honest Jack Hamilton, and the party are 30 
swallowed in the crowd. 

Let us 'return to the group, whose conversation the new 
arrivals had interrupted. 



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400 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

"Well, I was mistaken," says the gentleman in the long waist- 
coat, "but anyone may see that Clare Lee is dying slowly !" 

At which affecting observation the young ladies sigh and 
shake their heads. • 

"And just think what that man has thrown this divine creature 
away for," continues the censor morum: "for a common actress! 
—an ordinary playing girl, tolerably pretty she may be but vastly 
overrated — a mere thing of stage paint and peari powder, strut- 
ting through her parts and ranting like an Amazon !" 

"I think her quite pretty," says Laura, "but it is too bad." 

"Dreadful !" 

"Awful !" 

"Horrible!" 

"Shocking!" 

These are some of the comments on Mr. Effingham's conduct 
from the elegant little dames. 

"He is ashamed to show himself anywhere," continues the 
gentleman in the long waistcoat, "and only yesterday met me on 
the street and, in passing, turned away his head, plainly afraid 
2 that I would not speak in return had he addressed me!" 

At which words the gentlemen are observed to smile — know- 
ing as they do something of Mr. Champ Effingham's personal 
character and habits. 

"He actually was afraid to look at me," says the censor, "and 
25 I am told keeps his room all day or passes his time in the society 
of that Circe, yes, that siren who is only too fond of him, I am 
afraid— and I predict will make him marry her at last." 

The ladies sigh and agitate their fans with diamond-sparkling 
hands. They feel themselves very far above this shameless 
30 creature attempting to catch— as we now say— Mr. Effingham. 
They pity her, for such a thing never has occurred to them — no 
gentleman has ever been attractive enough for them to have 
designs upon his heart. And so they pity and despise Beatrice 
for wishing to run away with her admirer. 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 401 

"He is heartily ashamed of his infatuation, and I saw him 
last night in the theater, positively afraid to look at the audience— 
but staring all the time at her," continues the small gentleman. 

"But that is easy to understand, as he is in love," says Myrtilla 
with a strong inclination to take the part of the reprobate against 5 
his enemy. 

"No, no, madam," exclaims the censor, "he was really ashamed 
to look at the people and took not the least notice of their frowns : 
he does not visit anywhere ; he knows he would not be received — 
he is afraid to show his face." 10 

It seemed that the gentleman in the long waistcoat was doomed 
to have all his prophecies falsified ; for at that moment, the usher 
announced in a loud voice, which attracted the attention of the 
whole company: 

"Mr. Effingham and Miss Hallam!" 15 

Mr. Effingham entered under the full light of the central 
chandelier, with Beatrice on his arm. He carried his head 
proudly erect, his eye was clear and steady, his lip calm and only 
slightly sarcastic; his whole carriage displayed perfect and 
unaffected self-possession. The thousand eyes bent on him 2 
vainly sought in his eyes, or lips, anything going to show that 
he felt conscious of the dreadful, the awful social enormity 
which he was committing. 

Mr. Effingham was dressed with extraordinary richness. He 
was always elegant in his costume ; on that night he was splendid. 2 5 
His coat of rich cut velvet was covered with embroidery and 
sparkled with a myriad of chased-gold buttons; his lace ruffles 
at breast and wrist were point-de-Venise, his fingers were brilliant 
with rings, and his powdered hair waved from his clear, pale 
temples like a stream of silver dust. He looked like a courtier 30 
of the days of Louis XIV, dressed for a royal reception. 

And how did Beatrice compare with this brilliant star of 
fashion — this thunderbolt of war and prince of modern wits, as 
the muse in powdered hair and ruffles had characterized him? 



402 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE * 

Poor Beatrice was quite eclipsed by her cavalier. Her simple, 
unassuming dress of pearl color, looped back with plain ribbon 
and without a single flower or any ornament whatever, looked 
strangely out of place thrown in contrast with the brilliant silks 
5 and velvets and gold buttons and diamonds of her companion; 
her modest, tender face and drooping head, with its unpretending 
coiffure, looked quite insignificant beside the bold, defiant coun- 
tenance of Mr. Effingham, which returned look for look and gaze 
for gaze, with an insulting nonchalance and easy hauteur. We 

10 know how reluctantly Beatrice had come thither — rather how 
bitter a trial it was to her — and we may understand why she 
looked pale and troubled and — spite of the fact that she had 
just encountered the gaze of a curious and laughing audience 
without any emotion — now felt her spirit die within her. It was 

15 not because she shrunk from comment half so much as from the 
fact that each moment she expected to see opposite to her the 
cold, pale face and sick, reproachful eyes of Clare Lee — of Clare, 
who had thrown aside the prejudices of class, even forgot the 
jealousy of a wronged and wretched rival, to press in her arms 

2 the rival who had made all her woe, and that rival a common 
actress ! It was the dread of her eye which made poor Beatrice 
tremble — this alone made her lip quiver and her brow droop. 

His Excellency, Governor Fauquier, came forward to welcome 
his guests, but started at the sight of Beatrice and almost uttered 

2 5 an exclamation. For a moment he was staggered and said 

nothing. This soon passed, however, and by the time Mr. Effing- 
ham had accomplished his easy bow, the Governor was himself 
again and, like the elegant gentleman he was, made a low 
inclination before Beatrice. Then he made a pleasant allusion 

3 to the weather — that much -abused subject, which has extri- 

cated so many perishing conversations — and so, smiling agreeably, 
passed on. 

Mr. Effingham advanced through the opening, on each side of 
which extended a row of brilliant forms sparkling with lace and 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 403 

jewels, without any apparent consciousness that he and his com- 
panion were the observed of all observers — without being con- 
scious, one would have said, of those murmured comments which 
greeted on every side the strange and novel scene. His manner 
to Beatrice, as he bent down to speak to her, was full of respectful 5 
and chivalric feeling; his eye was soft, his lip smiling; the highest 
lady of the land might well have felt an emotion of pleasure in 
so elegant and noble an exhibition of regard. And this was not 
affected by Mr. Effingham. By no means. We have failed to 
convey a truthful impression of this young gentleman's character 1 
if the reader has not before this time perceived that with all his 
woeful faults and failings, Mr. Champ Effingham had much in 
his character of the bold gentleman — : the ancient knight. With 
those thousand satirical or scornful eyes bent on her, Beatrice 
was dearer to him than she had ever been before. Those elegant 1 5 
ladies and gallant gentlemen were saying with disdain, "a common 
actress!" Well, he would espouse the cause of that girl they 
scorned against them all and treat her like a queen! Never had 
she had more complete possession of his heart; never had his 
heart thrilled so deliciously at the contact of her hand, resting 20 
upon his arm. 

As we have said, all 'drew back from the newcomers, and 
they entered through an open space, like a king leading in his 
queen. Mr. Effingham looked round with a cool and easy smile, 
and led the young girl to a seat near some elderly dowagers in 2 5 
turbans and diamonds, who had enthroned themselves in state to 
watch their daughters and see that those inexperienced creatures 
did not give too much encouragement to ineligible personages. 
As Beatrice sank into one of the red damask chairs, the surround- 
ing chairs suddenly retreated on their rollers and the turbans 3 
agitated themselves indignantly. Mr. Effingham smiled, with his 
easy, mocking expression, and observing that one of the diamond- 
decorated dowagers had dropped her fan, picked it up and pre- 



10 



15 



20 



25 



30 



404 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

sented it to her with a bow. The indignant lady turned away 
her head with a frown. 

"Ah," said Mr. Effingham, politely, "I was mistaken." 

And fanning himself for a moment negligently, he placed the 
richly feathered instrument in the hand of Beatrice. 

"My fan, if you please, sir," said the owner, suddenly flushing 
with indignant fire. 

"Your fan, madam?" asked Mr. Effingham, with polite sur- 
prise. 

"Yes, sir; you picked it up, sir!" 

"A thousand pardons !" returned the young gentleman, with 
a courteous smile ; "did I ?" 

"Yes, sir ! that is it, sir ! In the hands of that—" 

"Oh, I understand," returned Mr. Effingham ; and with a low 
inclination to Beatrice, he said, holding out his hand, "Will you 
permit me?" 

The fan was restored by the young girl, just as she had taken 
it — unconsciously, and the dowager received it with the tips of 
her fingers, as if it had been contaminated. At the same moment 
the band struck up a minuet, and two couples began to 
dance. . . . 

"Come !" said he to Beatrice ; and taking her hand, he raised 
her, and led her forward. 

"Not so fast," he said, with a gesture of his hand, to the 
musicians ; "I cannot dance a minuet to a gavotte tune." 

And he entered into the broad, open space with Beatrice, the 
mark of a thousand eyes. . . . 

The entrance of Mr. Effingham into the open space to dance 
the second minuet of the evening had caused an awful sensation. 
As he glided through the stately dance to the slow-rolling music, 
bowing profoundly, with his tender, lordly smile, touching the 
young girl's hand with chivalric respect, pressing his cocked hat 
to his heart at each inclination of his handsome and brilliant 
head, all eyes had been bent upon him, all tongues busy with him. 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 405 

And these eyes and tongues had taken equal note of Beatrice. 
The young girl moved through the old stately dance with that 
exquisite grace and ease with which she performed every evolu- 
tion, and her tender, agitated face, as we have seen, tempered 
the wrath of many an indignant damsel. After the first burst 6 
of surprise and anger, the gentlemen too began to take the part — 
as Virginia gentlemen always have done and always will do — of 
the lonely girl environed by so many hostile eyes and slighting 
comments. They forgot the prepossessions of rank, the preju- 
dices of class — no longer remembered that the young actress 10 
occupied upon the floor a position to which she was not entitled; 
they only saw a woman who had all the rest against her, and 
their sympathy was nearly powerful enough to make them lose 
sight of Mr. Effingham's defiance. 

A murmur rose as the music stopped, and he led her to a 15 
seat; and then a species of undulation in the crowd, near the 
entrance into the next room, attracted attention. Mr. Effingham 
had his back turned, however, and did not observe this incident. 
He was talking to Beatrice in a low tone. 

"You see," he said, with his calm, nonchalant voice — "you see, 2 
Beatrice, that this superb society, which you fancied you would 
find yourself so much out of place in, is not so very extraordinary 
after all. I think that I hazard nothing in saying that the second 
minuet was better than the first ; you are, indeed, far more beau- 
tiful than that little dame whose ancestors, I believe, came over 25 
with the conqueror — Captain Smith." 

And his cynical smile grew soft as he gazed on the tender, 
anxious face. 

"It was not so dreadful an ordeal," he added, "though I must 
say we were the subject of much curiosity. I observed a group 30 
criticizing me, which pleased me. There was a fiery young 
gentleman in a long waistcoat, whom I offended by not returning 
his bow some months since — and I believe he was the orator of 
the occasion." 



406 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

With which words, Mr. Effingham's lip curled. 
"See! the very same group — everybody, in fact, is gazing at 
us. Let them! you are lovelier than them all." 

And Mr. Effingham raised his head proudly and looked around 
6 like an emperor. But Beatrice felt her heart die within her. 
That minuet had exhausted her strength; each moment she 
expected to see the pale cold face of Clare looking at her. Mr. 
Effingham observed how faint she was, and leaning over took a 
smelling bottle from the hand of the old dowager who had 
10 dropped the fan — bowing and smiling. 

He presented it to Beatrice, but she put it away with the 
back of her hand, whereupon Mr. Effingham, with a second bow, 
restored it to the dowager, who, aghast at his impudence, beaten 
by his superior coolness, and overwhelmed with rage, took it 
15 without knowing what she did. Mr. Effingham thereupon 
turned, smiling, to Beatrice again: 

"There seems to be something going on yonder," he said, 
leaning on her chair, and directing the young girl's attention to 
the flashing waves of the crowd, which moved to and fro like 
20 foaming billows, in the light of the brilliant chandeliers. Beatrice 
felt an indefinable and vague fear take possession of her heart. 
At the same moment, Master Willie came pushing and elbowing 
through the crowd. 

"Cousin Clare is sick !" he said ; "you'd better go and see her, 
25 brother Champ. She liked to fainted just now !" 
Beatrice understood all. 

"Oh, sir! let me go!" she cried, "go out with me! I shall 
die here ! — oh, I cannot — that dance nearly killed me — and now !— 
Oh, sir, have pity, give me your arm !" 
30 And rising with a hurried movement, she placed her hand on 

Mr. Effingham's arm. That gentleman smiled bitterly. 

"Yes," he said, "this is the tragedy after the comedy! I 
understand this fainting." 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 407 

"Oh, sir, have pity— I must go !" cried Beatrice. "I will go 
alone !" 

Mr. Effingham held her back and hesitated. At last he said : 

"Well, madam — as you please ; I have had a pleasant minuet. 
I will go." 5 

And with the same cold, defiant ease, he led the young girl 
across the room and issued forth into the open air. 



HENRY WOODFIN GRADY 

Born in Athens, Ga., 1851 ; died in Atlanta, 1889 

THE NEW SOUTH 

In speaking to the toast with which you have honored me, I 
accept the term, "The New South," as in no sense disparaging to 
the Old. Dear to me, sir, is the home of my childhood and the 10 
traditions of my people. I would not, if I could, dim the glory 
they won in peace and war, or by word or deed take aught from 
the splendor and grace of their civilization — never equaled and, 
perhaps, never to be equaled in its chivalric strength and grace. 
There is a New South, not through protest against the Old, but 15 
because of new conditions, new adjustments and, if you please, 
new ideas and aspirations. It is to this that I address myself, 
and to the consideration of which I hasten lest it become the 
Old South before I get to it. Age does not endow all things 
with strength and virtue, nor are all new things to be despised. 
The shoemaker who put over his door "John Smith's shop. 
Founded in 1760," was more than matched by his young rival 
across the street who hung out this sign : "Bill Jones. Established 
1886. No old stock kept in this shop." 

Dr. Talmage has drawn for you, with a master's hand, the 
picture of your returning armies. He has told you how, in the 
pomp and circumstance of war, they came back to you, marching 
with proud and victorious tread, reading their glory in a nation's 
eyes ! Will you bear with me while I tell you of another army 



20 



25 



408 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

that sought its home at the close of the late war — an army that 
marched home in defeat and not in victory — in pathos and not 
in splendor, but in glory that equaled yours and to hearts as 
loving as ever welcomed heroes home. Let me picture to you 
5 the footsore Confederate soldier as, buttoning up in his faded 
gray jacket the parole which was to bear testimony to his children 
of his fidelity and faith, he turned his face southward from 
Appomattox in April, 1865. Think of him as ragged, half- 
starved, heavy-hearted, enfeebled by want and wounds; having 

10 fought to exhaustion, he surrenders his gun, wrings the hands of 
his comrades in silence, and lifting his tear-stained and pallid 
face for the last time to the graves that dot the Old Virginia hills, 
pulls his gray cap over his brow and begins the slow and painful 
journey. What does he find — let me ask you, who went to your 

15 homes eager to find in the welcome you had justly earned, full 
payment for four years' sacrifice — what does he find when, having 
followed the battle-stained cross against overwhelming odds, 
dreading death not half so much as surrender, he reaches the 
home he left so prosperous and beautiful? He finds his house 

2 in ruins, his farm devastated, his slaves free, his stock killed, 
his barns empty, his trade destroyed, his money worthless; his 
social system, feudal in its magnificence, swept away ; his people 
without law or legal status, his comrades slain, and the burdens 
of others heavy on his shoulders. Crushed by defeat, his very 

2 5 traditions are gone ; without money, credit, employment, material, 

or training, and, besides all this, confronted with the gravest 
problem that ever met human intelligence — the establishing of a 
status for the vast body of his liberated slaves. 

What does he do — this hero in gray with a heart of gold? 

3 Does he sit down in sullenness and despair? Not for a day. 

Surely God, who had stripped him of his prosperity, inspired him 
in his adversity. As ruin was never before so overwhelming, 
never was restoration swifter. The soldier stepped from the 
trenches into the furrow; horses that had charged Federal guns 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 



409 



marched before the plow, and fields that ran red with human 
blood in April were green with the harvest in June; women 
reared in luxury cut up their dresses and made breeches for their 
husbands, and, with a patience and a heroism that fit women 
always as a garment, gave their hands to work. There was little 5 
bitterness in all this. Cheerfulness and frankness prevaded. 
"Bill Arp" struck the keynote when he said: "Well, I killed as 
many of them as they did of me, and now I am going to work. 
Or the soldier returning home after defeat and roasting some 
corn on the roadside, who made the remark to his comrades: 
"You may leave the South if you want to, but I am going to 
Sandersville, kiss my wife, and raise a crop, and if the Yankees 
fool with me any more I will whip 'em again." I want to say to 
General Sherman-who is considered an able man in our parts 
though some people think he is a kind of careless man about 15 
fire-that from the ashes he left us in 1864 we have raised a 
brave and beautiful city; that somehow we have caught the 
sunshine in the bricks and mortar of our homes, and have 
builded therein not one ignoble prejudice or memory. 

But in all this what have we accomplished? What is the 20 
sum of our work? We have found out that in the general 
summary the free negro counts for more than he did as a slave. 
We have planted the schoolhouse on the hilltop and made it free 
to white and black. We have sown towns and cities in the place 
of theories, and put business above politics. We have challenged 25 
your spinners in Massachusetts and your ironmakers in Penn- 
sylvania. We have learned that the $400,000,000 annually 
received from our cotton crop will make us rich, when the 
supplies that make it are home-raised. We have reduced the 
commercial rate of interest from twenty-four to six per cent 60 
and are floating four-per-cent bonds. We have learned that 
one Northern immigrant is worth fifty foreigners, and have 
smoothed the path to southward, wiped out the place where 
Mason and Dixon's line used to be, and hung our latchstnng out 



410 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

to you and yours. We have reached the point that marks perfect 
harmony in every household, when the husband confesses that 
the pies which his wife cooks are as good as those his mother 
used to bake; and we admit that the sun shines as brightly and 
5 the moon as softly as it did ''before the war." We have 
established thrift in city and country. We have fallen in love 
with work. We have restored comfort to homes from which 
culture and elegance never departed. We have let economy 
take root and spread among us as rank as the crabgrass which 

!0 sprung from Sherman's cavalry camps, until we are ready to lay 
odds on the Georgia Yankee, as he manufactures relics of the 
battlefield in a one-story shanty and squeezes pure olive oil out 
of his cotton seed, against any downeaster that ever swapped 
wooden nutmegs for flannel sausages in the valleys of Vermont. 

1 5 Above all, we know that we have achieved in these "piping times 
of peace" a fuller independence for the South than that which 
our fathers sought to win in the forum by their eloquence or 
compel on the field by their swords. 

It is a rare privilege, sir, to have had part, however humble, 

20 in this work. Never was nobler duty confided to human hands 
than the uplifting and upbuilding of the prostrate and bleeding 
South, misguided, perhaps, but beautiful in her suffering, and 
honest, brave, and generous always. In the record of her social, 
industrial, and political illustrations we await with confidence the 

2 5 verdict of the world. 

But what of the negro? Have we solved the problem he 
presents or progressed in honor and equity toward the solution? 
Let the record speak to the point. No section shows a more 
prosperous laboring population than the negroes of the South ; 

30 none in fuller sympathy with the employing and landowning 
class. He shares our school fund, has the fullest protection of 
our laws and the friendship of our people. Self-interest, as 
well as honor, demand that he should have this. Our future, our 
very existence depend upon our working out this problem in full 






THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 411 

and exact justice. We understand that when Lincoln signed 
the Emancipation Proclamation, your victory was assured ; for 
he then committed you to the cause of human liberty, against 
which the terms of man cannot prevail ; while those of our states- 
men who trusted to make slavery the corner-stone of the Con- 5 
f ederacy doomed us to defeat as far as they could, committing us 
to a cause that reason could not defend or the sword maintain 
in the sight of advancing civilization. Had Mr. Toombs said, 
which he did not say, that he would call the roll of his slaves at 
the foot of Bunker Hill, he would have been foolish, for he 10 
might have known that whenever slavery became entangled in 
war, it must perish, and that the chattel in human flesh ended 
forever in New England when your fathers— not to be blamed 
for parting with what didn't pay— sold their slaves to our 
fathers— not to be praised for knowing a paying thing when 15 
they saw it. 

The relations of the Southern people with the negro are close 
and cordial. We remember with what fidelity for four years 
he guarded our defenseless women and children, whose husbands 
and fathers were fighting against his freedom. To his eternal 2 
credit be it said that whenever he struck a blow for his own 
liberty he fought in open battle, and when at last he raised his 
black and humble hands that the shackles might be struck off, 
those hands were innocent of wrong against his helpless charges 
and worthy to be taken in loving grasp by every man who honors 2 5 
loyalty and devotion. Ruffians have maltreated him, rascals have 
misled him, philanthropists established a bank for him, but the 
South, with the North, protests against injustice to this simple 
and sincere people. To liberty and enfranchisement is as far as 
law can carry the negro. The rest must be left to conscience 30 
and common sense. It should be left to those among whom his 
lot is cast, with whom he is indissolubly connected and whose 
prosperity depends upon their possessing his intelligent sympathy 
and confidence. Faith has been kept with him in spite of calum- 



412 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

nious assertions to the contrary by those who assume to speak 
for us or by frank opponents. Faith will be kept with him in 
the future, if the South holds her reason and integrity. 

But have we kept faith with you? In the fullest sense, yes. 
5 When Lee surrendered — I don't say when Johnston surrendered, 
because I understand he still alludes to the time when he met 
General Sherman last as the time when he "determined to aban- 
don any further prosecution of the struggle" — when Lee sur- 
rendered, 1 say, and Johnston quit, the South became, and has 

1 since been, loyal to this Union. We fought hard enough to know 
that we were whipped and in perfect frankness accepted as final 
the arbitrament of the sword to which we had appealed. The 
South found her jewel in the toad's head of defeat. The shackles 
that held her in narrow limitations fell forward when the 

15 shackles of the negro slave were broken. Under the old regime 
the negroes were slaves to the South, the South was a slave 
to the system. The old plantation, with its simple police regu- 
lation and its feudal habit, was the only type possible under 
slavery. Thus we gathered in the hands of a splendid and 

2 chivalric oligarchy the substance that should have been diffused 
among the people, as the rich blood, under certain artificial con- 
ditions, is gathered at the heart, filling that with affluent rapture, 
but leaving the body chill and colorless. 

The Old South rested everything on slavery and agriculture, 

25 unconscious that these could neither give nor maintain healthy 
growth. The New South presents a perfect democracy, the oli- 
garchs leading in the popular movement — a social system com- 
pact and closely knitted, less splendid on the surface but stronger 
at the core — a hundred farms for every plantation, fifty homes 

30 for every palace, and a diversified industry that meets the com- 
plex needs of this complex age. 

The New South is enamored of her new work. Her soul is 
stirred with the breath of a new life. The light of a grander 
day is falling fair on her face. She is thrilling with the con- 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 413 

sciousness of growing power and prosperity. As she stands 
upright, full-statured and equal among the people of the earth, 
breathing the keen air and looking out upon the expanding hori- 
zon, she understands that her emancipation came because in the 
inscrutable wisdom of God her honest purpose was crossed and 5 
her brave armies were beaten. 

This is said in no spirit of time-serving or apology. The South 
has nothing for which to apologize. She believes that the late 
struggle between the States was war and not rebellion, revolu- 
tion and not conspiracy, and that her convictions were as honest 1 
as yours. I should be unjust to the dauntless spirit of the South 
and to my own convictions if I did not make this plain in this 
presence. The South has nothing to take back. In my native 
town of Athens is a monument that crowns its central hill — 
a plain white shaft. Deep cut into its shining sides is a name 15 
dear to me above the names of men, that of a brave and simple 
man who died in brave and simple faith. Not for all the glories 
of New England — from Plymouth Rock all the way — would 
I exchange the heritage he left me in his soldier's death. To 
the foot of that shaft I shall send my children's children to rever- 20 
ence him who ennobled their name with his heroic blood. But, sir, 
speaking from the shadow of that memory, which I honor as I 
do nothing else on earth, I say that the cause in which he suf- 
fered and for which he gave his life was adjudged by higher 
and fuller wisdom than his or mine, and I am glad that the 25 
omniscient God held the balance of battle in His Almighty hand, 
and that human slavery was swept forever from American soil — 
the American Union saved from the wreck of war. 

This message, Mr. President, comes to you from consecrated 
ground. Every foot of the soil about the city in which I live 30 
is sacred as a battleground of the Republic. Every hill that in- 
vests it is hallowed to you by the blood of your brothers, who 
died for your victory, and doubly hallowed to us by the blood of 
those who died hopeless, but undaunted, in defeat — sacred soil 



414 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

to all of us, rich with memories that make us purer and stronger 
and better, silent but stanch witnesses in its red desolation of 
the matchless valor of American hearts and the deathless glory 
of American arms — speaking an eloquent witness in its white 
6 peace and prosperity to the indissoluble union of American States 
and the imperishable brotherhood of the American people. 

Now, what answer has New England to this message? Will 
she permit the prejudices of war to remain in the hearts of the 
conquerors, when it has died in the hearts of the conquered? 

10 Will she transmit this prejudice to the next generation, that in 
their hearts, which never felt the generous ardor of conflict, it 
may perpetuate itself ? Will she withhold, save in strained cour- 
tesy, the hand which straight from his soldier's heart Grant offered 
Lee at Appomattox ? Will she make the vision of a restored and 

15 happy people, which gathered about the couch of your dying 
captain, filling his heart with grace, touching his lips with praise, 
and glorifying his path to the grave — will she make this vision on 
which the last sigh of his expiring soul breathed a benediction, a 
cheat and a delusion? If she does, the South, never abject in 

20 asking for comradeship, must accept with dignity its refusal; 
but if she does not ; if she accepts in frankness and sincerity this 
message of good will and friendship, then will the prophecy of 
Webster, delivered in this very Society forty years ago, amid 
tremendous applause, be verified in its fullest and widest sense, 

25 when he said: "Standing hand to hand and clasping hands, we 
should remain united as we have been for sixty years, citizens 
of the same country, members of the same government, united, 
all united now and united forever." There have been difficulties, 
contentions and controversies, but I tell you that in my judgment 

"Those opposed eyes, 
Which, like the meteors of a troubled heaven, 
All of one nature, of one substance bred, 
Did lately meet in th' intestine shock, 
Shall now, in mutual well-beseeming ranks, 
March all one way." 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 415 



GEORGE WASHINGTON CABLE 
Born in New Orleans, 1844; has lived since 1886 in Northampton, Mass- 

NEW ORLEANS BEFORE THE CAPTURE* 

In the spring of 1862, we boys of Race, Orange, Magazine, 
Camp, Constance, Annunciation, Prytania, and other streets had 
no game. Nothing was "in" ; none of the old playground sports 
that commonly fill the school-boy's calendar. We were tired of 
drilling. Not one of us between seven and seventeen but could 5 
beat the drum, knew every bugle-call, and could go through 
the manual of arms and the facings like a drill-sergeant. We 
were blase old soldiers — military critics. 

Who could tell us anything? I recall but one trivial admis- 
sion of ignorance on the part of any lad. On a certain day of 10 
grand review, when the city's entire defensive force was march- 
ing through Canal street, there came along, among the endless 
variety of good and bad uniforms, a stately body of tall, stal- 
wart Germans, clad from head to foot in velveteen of a pe- 
culiarly vociferous fragrance, and a boy, spelling out the name 15 
upon their banner, said: 

"H-u-s-s-a-r-s : what's them?" 

"Aw, you fool!" cried a dozen urchins at once, "them's the 
Hoosiers. Don't you smell 'em?" 

But that was earlier. The day of grand reviews was past. 20 
Hussars, Zouaves, and numberless other bodies of outlandish 
name had gone to the front in Tennessee and Virginia. Our 
cultivated eyes were satisfied now with one uniform that we 
saw daily. Every afternoon found us around in Coliseum Place, 
standing or lying on the grass watching the dress parade of the 2 5 
"Confederate Guards." Most of us had fathers or uncles in 



*Taken from Battles and Leaders of the Civil War, by permission of 
The Century Co. 



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15 



416 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

the long, spotless, gray, white-gloved ranks that stretched in 
such a faultless alignment down the hard, harsh turf of our 
old ball-ground. 

This was the flower of the home guard. The merchants, 
bankers, under-writers, judges, real-estate owners, and capital- 
ists of the Anglo-American part of the city were "all present or 
accounted for" in that long line. Gray heads, hoar heads, high 
heads, bald heads. Hands flashed to breast and waist with a 
martinet's precision at the command of "Present arms" — hands 
that had ruled by the pen — the pen and the dollar — since long be- 
fore any of us young spectators was born, and had done no 
harder muscular work than carve roasts and turkeys these 
twenty, thirty, forty years. Here and there among them were 
individuals who, unaided, had clothed and armed companies, 
squadrons, battalions, and sent them to the Cumberland and the 
Potomac. A good three-fourths of them had sons on distant 
battle-fields, some living, some dead. 

Gold and silver had long ago disappeared. Confederate money 
was the currency; and not merely was the price of food and 

20 raiment rising, but the value of the money was going down. The 
State, too, had a paper issue, and the city had another. Yet 
with all these there was a famine of small change, and then a del- 
uge of "shinplasters." Pah! What a mess it was! The boss 
butchers and keepers of drinking-houses actually took the lead 

25 in issuing "money."- The current joke was that you could pass 
the label of an olive-oil bottle, because it was greasy, smelt bad, 
and bore an autograph — Plagniol Freres, if I remember rightly. 
I did my first work as cashier in those days, and I can remem- 
ber the smell of my cash-drawer yet. Instead of five-cent 

30 pieces we had car tickets. How the grimy little things used to 
stick together! They would pass and pass until they were so 
soft and illegible with grocers' and butchers' handling that you 
could tell only by some faint show of their original color what 
company had issued them. Rogues did a lively business in 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 417 

"split tickets," literally splitting them and making one ticket 

serve for two. . . . 

Decay had come in. In that warm, moist climate it is always 
hungry, and wherever it is allowed to feed, eats with a greed 
that is strange to see. With the wharves, always expensive and 5 
difficult to maintain, it made havoc. The occasional idle, weather- 
stained ship moored beside them, and resting on the .water al- 
most as light and void as an empty peascod, coul d hardly find 
a place to fasten to. The streets fell into sad neglect, but the 
litter of commerce was not in them, and some of their round- 
stone pavements after a shower would have the melancholy clean- 
ness of bleached bones. How quiet and lonely the harbor grew . 
The big dry-docks against the farther shore were all empty. 
Now and then a tug fussed about, with the yellow river all to 
itself; and one or two steamboats came and went each day, but 
they moved drowsily, and, across on the other side of the river, 
a whole fleet of their dingy white sisters laid tied up to the bank, 
sine die. My favorite of all the sea-steamers, the little Habana, 
that had been wont to arrive twice a month from Cuba, disgorge 
her Spanish-American cargo, and bustle away again, and that I 2 
had watched the shipwrights, at their very elbows, razee and nt 
with three big raking masts in place of her two small ones, had 
long ago slipped down the river and through the blockaders, 
and was now no longer the Habana, but the far-famed and 
dreaded Sumter. 

The public mind was at a transparent heat. Everybody 
wanted to know of everybody else, "Why don't you go to the 
front ?" Even the gentle maidens demanded tartly of one another, 
why their brothers or lovers had not gone long ago, though, in 
truth, the laggards were few indeed. The very children were 30 
fierce. For now even we, the uninformed, the lads and the 
women, knew the enemy was closing down upon us. Of course 
we confronted the fact very valorously, we boys and mothers 
and sisters— and the newspapers. Had we not inspected the 



418 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

fortifications ourselves? Was not every man in town ready to 
rush into them at the twelve taps of the fire-alarm bells ? Were 
we not ready to man them if the men gave out ? Nothing afloat 
could pass the forts. Nothing that walked could get through 
5 our swamps. The Mississippi — and, in fact, she was a majesti- 
cally terrible structure, only let us complete her — would sweep the 
river clean! 

But there was little laughter. Food was dear; the destitute 
poor were multiplying terribly; the market men and women, 

10 mainly Germans, Gascon-French, and Sicilians, had lately re- 
fused to take the shinplaster currency, and the city authority 
had forced them to accept it. There was little to laugh at. The 
Mississippi was gnawing its levees and threatening to plunge 
in upon us. The city was believed to be full of spies. 

15 I shall not try to describe the day the alarm-bells told us the 
city was in danger and called every man to his mustering point. 
The children poured out from the school-gates and ran crying 
to their homes, meeting their sobbing mothers at their thresh- 
olds. The men fell into ranks. I was left entirely alone in 

2 charge of the store in which I was employed. Late that after- 
noon, receiving orders to close it, I did so, and went home. But 
I did not stay. I went to the river-side. There until far into the 
night I saw hundreds of drays carrying cotton out of the presses 
and yards to the wharves, where it was fired. The glare of those 

2 5 sinuous miles of flame set men and women weeping and wailing 
thirty miles away on the farther shore of Lake Ponchartrain. 
But the next day was the day of terrors. During the night fear, 
wrath, and sense of betrayal had run through the people as the 
fire had run through the . cotton. You have seen, perhaps, a 

30 family fleeing with lamentations and wringing of hands out of a 
burning house; multiply it by thousands upon thousands; that 
was New Orleans, though the houses were not burning. The 
firemen were out ; but they cast fire on the waters, putting the 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 419 

torch to the empty ships and cutting them loose to float down 
the river. 

Whoever could go was going. The great mass, that had no 
place to go or means to go with, was beside itself. "Betrayed! 
betrayed!" it cried, and ran in throngs from street to street, 5 
seeking some vent, some victim for its wrath. I saw a crowd 
catch a poor fellow at the corner of Magazine and Common 
streets, whose crime was that he looked like a stranger and might 
be a spy. He was the palest living man I ever saw. They 
swung him to a neighboring lamp-post, but the Foreign Legion 10 
was patroling the town in strong squads, and one of its lieutenants, 
all green and gold, leaped with drawn sword, cut the rope, and 
saved the man. This was but one occurrence ; there were many 
like it. I stood in the rear door of our store, Canal street, 
soon after reopening it. The junior of the firm was within. I 15 
called him to look toward the river. The masts of the cutter 
Washington were slowly tipping, declining, sinking — down she 
went. The gun-boat moored next to her began to smoke all over 
and then to blaze. My employers fell into ranks and left the 
city — left their goods and their affairs in the hands of one mere 2 
lad (no stranger would have thought I had reached fourteen) 
and one big German porter. I closed the doors, sent the porter 
to his place in the Foreign Legion, and ran to the levee to see 
the sights. 

What a gathering! The riff-raff of the wharves, the town, 2 5 
the gutters. Such women — such wrecks of women! And all 
the juvenile rag-tag. The lower steamboat landing, well covered 
with sugar, rice, and molasses, was being rifled. The men 
smashed ; the women scooped up the smashings. The river over- 
flowing the top of the levee. A rainstorm began to threaten. 30 
"Are the Yankee ships in sight?" I asked of an idler. He 
pointed out the tops of their naked masts as they showed up 
across the huge bend of the river. They were engaging the 
batteries at Camp Chalmette — the old field of Jackson's renown. 



420 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Presently that was over. Ah, me! I see them now as they 
come slowly round Slaughterhouse Point into full view, silent, 
grim, and terrible; black with men, heavy with deadly portent; 
the long-banished Stars and Stripes flying against the frowning 
5 sky. Oh, for the Mississippi! the Mississippi! Just then she 
came down upon them. But how? Drifting helplessly, a mass 
of flames. 

The crowds on the levee howled and screamed with rage. 
The swarming decks answered never a word; but one old tar 
on the Hartford, standing with lanyard in hand beside a great 
pivot-gun, so plain to view that you could see him smile, silently 
patted its big black breech and blandly grinned. 

And now the rain came down in sheets. About I or 2 o'clock 
in the afternoon (as I remember), I being again in the store with 
but one door ajar, came a roar of shoutings and imprecations 
and crowding feet down Common street. "Hurrah for Jeff 
Davis f Hurrah for Jeff Davis! Shoot them! Kill them! 
Hang them !" I locked the door on the outside, and ran to the 
front of the mob, bawling with the rest, "Hurrah for Jeff Davis !" 
About every third man there had a weapon out. Two officers 
,of the United States navy were walking abreast, unguarded and 
alone, looking not to right or left, never frowning, never flinching, 
while the mob screamed in their ears, shook cocked pistols in 
their faces, cursed and crowded, and gnashed upon them. So 
25 through the gates of death those two men walked to the City Hall 
to demand the town's surrender. It was one of the bravest deeds 
I ever saw done. 

Later events, except one, T leave to other pens. An officer 
from the fleet stood on the City Hall roof about to lower the 
30 flag of Louisiana. In the street beneath gleamed the bayonets 
of a body of marines. A howitzer pointed up and another down 
the street. All around swarmed the mob. Just then Mavor 
Monroe-lest the officer above should be fired upon, and the 
howitzers open upon the crowd-came out alone and stood just 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 421 

before one of the howitzers, tall, slender, with folded arms, eyeing 
the gunner." Down sank the flag. Captain Bell, tall and stiff, 
marched off with the flag rolled under his arm, and the howitzers 
clanking behind. Then cheer after cheer rang out for Monroe. 
And now, I dare say, every one is well pleased that, after all, 
New Orleans never lowered her colors with her own hands. 



JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 

Born in Eatonton, Ga., 1848 ; died in Atlanta, 1908 
MR. RABBIT GROSSLY DECEIVES MR. FOX * 
When the little boy, whose nights with Uncle Remus are as 
entertaining as those Arabian ones of blessed memory, had 
finished supper the other evening and hurried out to sit with his 
venerable patron, he found the old man in a great glee. Indeed, 10 
Uncle Remus was talking and laughing at such a .rate that the 
little boy was afraid he had company. The truth is, Uncle 
Remus had heard the child coming, and, when the rosy-cheeked 
chap put his head. in at the door, was engaged in a monologue, 
the burden of which seemed to be — * 5 

"Ole Molly Har', 
Wat you doin' dar, 
Settin' in de cornder 
Smokin' yo seegyar ?" 

As a matter of course, this vague allusion reminded the little 2 
boy of the fact that the wicked Fox was still in pursuit of the 
Rabbit, and he immediately put his curiosity in the shape of a 
question. 

"Uncle Remus, did the Rabbit have to go clean away when 
he got loose from the Tar-Baby ?" 2 5 

"Bless gracious, honey, dat he didn't. Who? Him? You 
dunno nuthin' 'tall 'bout Brer Rabbit ef dat's de way you puttin' 



*From the Atlanta Constitution. 



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15 



20 



25 



422 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

'im down. Wat he gwine way fer? He mouter stayed sorter 
close 'twell de pitch rub off'n his ha'r, but twan'tmenny days 
'fo' he waz lopin' up en down de naberhood same ez ever, end 
1 dunno ef he wern't mo' sassier dan befo\ 

"Seem like dat de tale 'bout how he got mixt up wid de 
Tar-Baby got 'round 'mongst de nabers. Leas'ways, Miss 
Meadows en de gals got win' un it, en de nex' time Brer Rabbit 
paid urn a visit Miss Meadows tackled 'em bout it, en de gals sot 
up a monst'us gigglement. Brer Rabbit, he sot up des ez cool ez 
a cowcumber, he did, en let 'em run on." 

"Who was Miss Meadows, Uncle Remus ?" inquired the little 
boy. 

"Don' ax me, honey. She wuz in de tale, en de tale I give 
you like h'it wer' gun to me. Brer Rabbit, he sot dar, he did, 
sorter lam' like, en den bimeby he cross his legs, he did, and wink 
his eye slow, en up and say, sezee : 

* 'Ladies, Brer Fox wuz my daddy's ridin'-hoss fer thirty year ; 
maybe mo', but thirty year dat I knows un,' sezee; en den he 
paid um hh 'specks, en tip his beaver, en march off, he did, des 
ez stiff en ez stuck up ez a fire-stick. 

"Nex' day, Brer Fox cum a callin,' and w'en he gun fer ter 
laugh 'bout Brer Rabbit, Miss Meadows en de gals, dey ups en 
tells 'im 'bout w'at Brer Rabbit say. Den Brer Fox grit his toof 
sho' nuff, he did, en he look mighty dumpy, but w'en he riz fer 
ter go he up en say, sezee : 

"'Ladies, I ain't 'sputin' w'at you say, but I'll make Brer 
Rabbit chaw up his words en spit um out right yer whar you kin 
see 'im,' sezee, en wid dat off Brer Fox marcht. 

"En w'en he got in de big road, he shuck de dew off'n his 
tail, en made a straight shoot fer Brer Rabbit's house. W'en he 
got dar, Brer Rabbit wuz spectin' un 'im, en de do' wuz shet 
fas'. Brer Fox knock. Nobody ans'er. Den he knock agin— 
blam ! blam ! Den Brer Rabbit holler out mighty weak : 

' 'Is dat you, Brer Fox? T want you ter run en fetch de 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 423 

doctor. Dat bait er pusly w'at I e't dis mawnin' is gittin' 'way 
wid me. Do, please, Brer Fox, run quick,' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. 

" 'I come atter you, Brer Rabbit,' sez Brer Fox, sezee. 'Dere's 
gwineter be a party up at Miss Meadows's,' sezee. 'All de gals'll 
be dere, en I promus, dat I'd fetch you. De ga[l]s, dey 'lowed 5 
dat hit wouldn't be no party 'ceppin' I fotch you,' sez Brer Fox, 
sezee. 

"Den Brer Rabbit say he was too sick, en Brer Fox say he 
wuzzent, en dar dey had it up and down, 'sputin' en contendin'. 
Brer Rabbit say he couldn't walk. Brer Fox say he'd tote 'im. 10 
Brer Rabbit say how ? Brer Fox say in his arms. Brer Rabbit 
say he'd drap 'im. Brer Fox 'low he wouldn't. Bimeby Brer 
Rabbit say he'd go ef Brer Fox'd tote 'im on his back.^ Brer 
Fox say he would. Brer Rabbit say he couldn't ride widout a 
saddle. Brer Fox say he'd git de saddle. Brer Rabbit say he 15 
couldn't set in saddle less he have bridle fer ter hoi' by. Brer 
Fox say he'd git de bridle. Brer Rabbit say he couldn't ride 
widout bline bridle, kaze Brer Fox be shym' at stumps 'long de 
road, en fling Mm off. Brer Fox say he'd git bline bridle. Den 
Brer Rabbit say he'd go. Den Brer Fox say he'd ride Brer 2 
Rabbit mos' up ter Miss Meadows's, en den he could git down 
en walk de balance er de way. Brer Rabbit 'greed, en den Brer 
Fox lipt out atter de saddle en de bridle. 

"Co'se Brer Rabbit know'd de game dat Brer Fox wuz fixin' 
fer ter play, en he' termined fer ter out do 'im, en by de time 2 5 
he koam his h'ar en twis' his mustash, en sorter rig up, here come 
Brer Fox, saddle en bridle on, en lookin' ez peart ez a circus pony. 
He trot up ter de do' en stood dar pawin' de ground en chompin' 
de bit same like sho' miff hoss, en Brer Rabbit he mounted, he 
did, en dey amble off. Brer Fox couldn't see behine wid de 30 
bline bridle on, but bimeby he feel Brer Rabbit raise one er his 
foots. 

"'Wat von doin' now, Brer Rabbit?' sezee. 

" 'Short'nin' de lef 'stir-p, Brer Fox,' sezee. 



424 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

"Bimeby Brer Rabbit raise up de udder foot. 
" 'Wat you doin' now, Brer Rabbit ?' sezee. 
" 'Pullin' down my pants, Brer Fox,' sezee. 
"All de time, bless grashus, honey, Brer Rabbit wer puttin' 
on his spurrers, en w'en dey got close to Miss Meadows, wher 
5 Brer Rabbit wuz to git off, en Brer Fox made a motion fer ter 
put on brakes, Brer Rabbit slap de spurrers inter Brer Fox's 
flanks, en you better b'leeve he got over groun'. W'en dey got 
ter de house, Miss Meadows en all de gals wuz settin' on de 
peazzer, en stidder stoppin' at de gate, Brer Rabbit rid on by, 
10 he did, en den come gallopin' down de road en up ter de hoss-rack, 
w'ich he hitch Brer Fox at, en den he santer inter de house, he 
did, en shake han's wid de gals, en set dar, smokin' his seegyar 
same ez a town man. Bimeby he draw in a long puff en den let 
hit out in a cloud, en squar hisse'f back en holler out, he did : 
15 "Ladies, ain't I done tell you Brer Fox wuz de ridin'-hoss 

fer our fambly ? He sorter losin' his gait now, but I 'speck I kin 
fetch 'im all right in a mont' or*so/ sezee. 

"En den Brer Rabbit smile, he did, en de gals giggle, en Miss 
Meadows, she praise up de pony, en dar wuz Brer Fox hitch fas' 
2 ter de rack, en couldn't he'p hissed." 

"Dey talk, en dey sing, en dey play on de peanner, de gals 

did twell bimeby hit come time fer Brer Rabbit fer to be gwine, 

en he tell urn all good-bye, en strut out to de hoss-rack same's 

ef he wuz de king er de patter-rollers, en den he mounted Brer 

25 Fox and rid off." 

MARY NOAILLES MURFREE 

"CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK" 

Born near Murfreesboro, Tenn., 1850; she still lives there 

THE GANDER PULLING 

From The Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains 
There was a sudden clamor upon the air; a vibrant, childish 
voice, and then a great horse-laugh. An old crone had come out 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 425 

of one of the cabins and was standing by the fence, holding out 
to Gid Fletcher, who seemed master of ceremonies, a large white 
gander. The fowl's physiognomy was thrown into bold prom- 
inence by a thorough greasing of the head and neck. His wings 
» flapped, he hissed fiercely, he dolorously squawked. A little girl 5 
was running frantically by the side of the old woman, clutching 
at her skirt, and vociferously claiming the "gaynder." Hers it 
was, since "Mam gin me the las' aig when the gray goose laid 
her ladder out, an' 'it war sot under the old Dominicky hen ez 
kern off'n her nest through settin' three weeks, like a hen will do. 1 
An' then 'twar put under old Top-knot, an' 'twar the fust aig 
hatched out'n old Top-knot's settin'." 

This unique pedigree, shrieked out with a shrill distinctness, 
mixed with the lament of the prescient bird, had a ludicrous effect. 
Fletcher took the gander with a guffaw, the old crone chuckled, 16 
and the young men laughed as they mounted their horses. 

The blacksmith hardly knew which part he preferred to play. 
The element of domination in his character gave a peculiar relish 
to the role of umpire ; yet with his pride in his deftness and 
strength it cost him a pang to forego the competition in which he 20 
felt himself an assured victor. He armed himself with a whip 
of many thongs, and took his stand beneath a branch of one of 
the trees, from which the gander was suspended by his big feet, 
head downward . Aghast at his disagreeable situation, his wild 
eyes stared about; his great wings flapped drearily; his long neck 25 
protruded with its peculiar motion, unaware of the clutch it 
invited. What a pity so funny a thing can suffer! 

The gaping crowd at the store, on the cabin porches, on the 
fences, watched the competitors with wide-eyed, wide-mouthed 
delight. There were gallant figures among them, shown to 30 
advantage on young horses whose spirit was not yet quelled by 
the plough. They filed slowly around the prescribed space once, 
twice; then each made the circuit alone at a break-neck gallop. 
As the first horseman rode swiftly along the crest of the precipice, 



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426 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

his head high against the blue sky, the stride of the steed covering 
mountain and valley, he had the miraculous effect of Prince 
Firouz Shah and the enchanted horse in their mysterious aerial 
journeys. When he passed beneath the branch whence hung the 
frantic, fluttering bird, the blacksmith, standing sentinel with his' 
whip of many thongs, laid it upon the flank of the horse, and, 
despite the wild and sudden plunge, the rider rose in his stirrups 
and clutched the greased neck of the swaying gander. Tough 
old fowl! The strong ligaments resisted. The first hardly 
hoped to pluck the head, and after his hasty convulsive grasp his 
frightened horse carried him on almost over the bluff. The 
slippery neck refused to yield at the second pull, and the screams 
of the delighted spectators mingled with the shrieks of the gander. 
The mountain colt, a clay-bank, with a long black tail full of 
cockle-burrs, bearing the third man, reared violently under the 
surprise of the lash. As the rider changed the balance of his 
weight, rising in his stirrups to tug at the gander's neck, the colt 
pawed the air wildly with his fore feet, fell backward, and rolled 
upon the ground, almost over the hapless wight. The black- 
smith was fain to support himself against the tree for laughter, 
and the hurrahing Settlement could not remember when it had 
enjoyed anything so much. The man gathered himself up sheep- 
ishly, nnd limped off; the colt being probably a mile away, run- 
ning through the woods at the height of his speed. 

The gander was in a panic by this time. If ever a fowl of 
that gender has hysterics, that gander exhibited the disease. He 
hissed; he flapped his wings; he squawked: he stared; he used 
every limited power of expression with which nature has gifted 
him. He was so funny one. could hardly look at him. 

As Amos James was about to take his turn, amid flattering 
cries of "Amos'll pull his head !" "Amos'll git his head !" a man 
who had suddenly appeared on horseback at the verge of the 
clearing, and had paused, contemplating the scene, rode swiftly 
forward to the tree. 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 427 

"Ye can't, pull out'n turn, — ye can't pull out'n turn, pa'son!" 
cried half a dozen voices from the younger men. The elders 
stared in amaze that the preacher should demean his calling by 
engaging in this public sport. 

Kelsey checked his pace before he reached the blacksmith, 5 
who, seeing that he was not going to pull, forbore to lay on the 
lash. The next moment he thought that Kelsey was going to 
pull; he had risen in his stirrups, with uplifted arm. 

"What be you-uns a-goin' ter do?" demanded Gid Fletcher, 
amazed. x 

"I'm a-goin' ter take this hyar critter down." 

His words thrilled the Settlement like a current of electricity. 
The next phrase was lost in a wild chorus of exclamations. 

"Take the gaynder down?" 

"What fur?" 15 

"Hi Kelsey hev los' his mind ; surely he hev." 

Then above the angry, undistinguishable tumult of remon- 
strance the preacher's voice rose clear and impressive: "The 
pains o' the beastis he hev made teches the Lord in heaven ; fur 
he marks the sparrow's fall, an' minds himself o' the pitiful 0*20 
yearth !" He spoke with the authority appertaining to his calling. 
"The spark o' life in this fow-el air kindled ez fraish ez yourn, — 
fur hevin' a soul, ye don't ginerally prove it; an' hevin' no soul 
ter save, this gaynder hain't yearned the torments o' hell, an 
I'm a-goin' ter take the critter down." 2 5 

" 'Tain't yer gaynder !" conclusively argued the blacksmith, 
applying the swage of his own conviction. 

'He air my gaynder!" shrieked out a childish voice. "Take 
him down, — take him down !" 

This objection to the time-honored sport seemed hardly less 30 
eccentric than an exhibition of insanity. To apply a dignified 
axiom of humanity to that fluttering, long-suffering tumult of 
anguish familiarly known as the "gaynder" was regarded as 
ludicrously inappropriate. To refer to the Lord and the typical 



428 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

sparrow in this connection seemed almost blasphemy. Neverthe- 
less, with the rural reverence for spiritual authority and the 
superior moral perception of the clergy, the crowd wore a sub- 
missively balked aspect, and even the young men who had not 
5 yet had their tug at the fowl's neck succumbed, under the impres- 
sion that the preacher's fiat had put a stop to the gander-pulling 
for this occasion. 

As Kelsey once more lifted his hand to liberate the creator of 
the day's merriment, the blacksmith, an old grudge reinforced by 
!° a new one, gave the horse a cut with his whip. The animal 
plunged under the unexpected blow, and carried the rider beyond 
the tree. Reverence for the cloth had no longer a restraining 
influence on the young mountaineers. They burst into yells of 
laughter. 

15 "Cl'ar out, pa'son!" they exclaimed, delightedly. "Ye hev 
hed yer pull. Cl'ar out!" 

There was a guffaw among the elders about the store. A 
clamor of commenting voices rose from the cabin porches, where 
the feminine spectators stood. The gander squawked dolorously. 

The hubbub was increased by the sudden sharp yelping of hounds 
that had started game somewhere near at hand. Afterward, 
from time to time, canine snarls and yaps rose vociferously upon 
the air, — unheeded, since the inherent interests of a gander- 
pulling were so enhanced by the addition of a moral discussion 

5 and the jeopardy of its conclusion. 

The next man in turn, Amos James, put his horse to a canter, 
and came in a cloud of yellow dust toward the objective point 
under the tree. In another moment there was almost a collision, 
s ^ for Kelsey had wheeled and ridden back so swiftly that he reined 
up under the boup-h where the fowl hune as Amos Tames, rising 
in his stirrups, dashed toward it. His horse shied, and carried 
him past, out of reach, while the blacksmith steooed precipitately 
toward the bole, exclaiming angrilv, "Don't ride me down, Hi 
Kelsey!" 



10 



15 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 429 

He recovered his presence of mind and the use of his whip 
immediately, and laid a stinging lash upon the parson's horse, 
as once more the champion of the bird reached up to release it. 
The next instant Gid Fletcher recoiled suddenly; there was a 
significant gesture, a steely glimmer, and the blacksmith was 
gazing with petrified reluctance down the muzzle of a six-shooter. 
He dared not move a muscle as he stood, with that limited field 
of vision, and with more respectful acquiescence in the opinion 
of another man than he had ever before been brought to entertain. 
The horseman looked at his enemy in silence for a moment, 
the broad-brimmed hat shading his face, with its melancholy 
expression, its immobile features, and its flashing eyes. 

"Drap that lash," Kelsey said. 

Gid Fletcher's grasp relaxed; then the parson with his left 
hand reached up and contrived to unloose the fluttering gander. 
He handed the bird down to the little girl, who had been fairly 
under the horse's heels at the tree since the first suggestions of 
its deliverance. She clutched it in great haste, wrapped her apron 
about it, and carrying it, baby-wise, ran fleetly off, casting appre- 
hensive glances over her shoulder. 

So the gander was saved, but in its fright, its woe, and the 
frantic presage in whatever organ may serve it for mind, the fowl 
had a pretty fair case against the Settlement for exemplary 
damages. 

The sport ended in great disaffection and a surly spirit. 
Several small grievances among the vounger men promised to 
result in a disturbance of the peace. The blacksmith, held at bay 
only by the pistol, flared out furiously when relieved of that strong 
coercion. His pride was roused in that he should be publicly 

• 30 

balked and terrorized. 

"I'll remember this," he said, shaking his fist in the prophet's 
face. "I'll save the gredge agin ye." 

But he was pulled off by his brethren in the church, who 
thought it unwise to have a member in good standing again 
assault the apostle of peace, 



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25 



430 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 



JAMES LANE ALLEN 
Born in Lexington, Ky., 1849 ; lives in New York City 

HEMP 

From The Reign of Law 

A hundred clays from the sowing, and those flowering heads 
have come forth with their mass of leaves and bloom and earliest 
fruits, elastic, swaying six, ten, twelve feet from the ground and 
ripe for cutting. A hundred days, reckoning from the last of 
5 March or the last of April, so that it is July, it is August. And 
now, borne far through the steaming air floats an odor, balsamic, 
startling : the odor of those plumes and stalks and blossoms from 
which is exuding freely the narcotic resin of the great nettle. 
The nostril expands quickly, the lungs swell out deeply to draw 
it in : the fragrance once known in childhood, ever in the memory 
afterward and able to bring back to the wanderer homesick 
thoughts of midsummer days in the shadowy, many-toned woods, 
over into which is blown the smell of the hempfields. 

Who apparently could number the acres of these in the days 
gone by? A land of hemp, ready for the cutting! The oats 
heavy-headed, rustling, have turned to gold and been stacked in 
the stubble or stored in the lofts of white, bursting barns. The 
heavy-headed, rustling wheat has turned to gold and been stacked 
in the stubble or sent through the whirling thresher. The barley 
and the rye are garnered and gone, the landscape has many bare 
and open spaces. But separating these everywhere, rise the fields 
of Indian corn now in blade and tassel ; and — more valuable than 
all that has been sown and harvested or remains to be — every- 
where the impenetrable thickets of the hemp. 

Impenetrable! For close together stand the stalks, making 
common cause for the soil and light, each but one of many, the 
fibre being better when so grown — as is also the fibre of men. 
Impenetrable and therefore weedless; for no plant life can 



20 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 



431 



ove it, not for itself, but for its protection leading -to b rood 
into the labyrinths out of the dusty road where danger _ draws 
near. Best of all winged creatures it .s loved by the ms-eyed 

burnished-breasted, murmuring doves, already ^™ J 
gather in the deadened tree-tops with crops eager for the se . 
Well remembered also by the long-flight passenger pigeon, commg 
into the land for the mast. Best of all wild things whose sa ety 
lies not in the wing but in the foot, it is loved by the hare for rts 
young, for refuge. Those lithe, velvety, summer-Am todies. 
Observe carefully the tops of the still hemp: are they lightly 
shaken ? Among the bases of those stalks a cotton-tail is thread 
ing its way inward beyond reach of its pursuer. Are they 
shaken violently, parted clean and wide to the right and left. 
It is the path of the dog following the hot scent-ever baffled 2 o 

A hundred days to lift out of those tiny seed *ese powerfu 
stalks, hollow, hairy, covered with their tough fibre.-that 
strength of cables when the big ships are tugged at by the joined 
fury of wind and ocean. And now some morning at the corner 
of the field stand the black men with hooks and whetstones. 26 
The hook, a keen, straight blade, bent at right angles to the handle 
two feet from the hand. Let these men be the strongest; no 
weakling can handle the hemp from seed to seed again. A 
heart, the doors and walls of which are in perfect order, through 
which flows freely the full stream of a healthy mans red blood; 30 
lungs deep, clear, easily filled, easily emptied; a body that can 
bend and twist and be straightened again in ceaseless rhythmical 
movement; limbs tireless; the very spirit of primeval man con- 
quering primeval nature-all these go into the cutting of the 



10 



432 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

hemp. The leader strides to the edge, and throwing forward his 
left arm, along which the muscles play, he grasps as much as it 
will embrace, bends the stalk over, and with his right hand draws 
the blade through them an inch or more from the ground. When 
he has gathered his armful, he turns and flings it down behind 
him, so that it lies spread out, covering when fallen the same 
space it filled while standing. And so he crosses the broad acres, 
and so each of the big black followers, stepping one by one to a 
place behind him, until the long, wavering whitish green swaths 
of the prostrate hemp lie shimmering across the fields. Strongest 
now is the smell of it, impregnating the clothing of the men, 
spreading far throughout the air. 

So it lies a week or more drying, dying, till the sap is out of 
the stalks, till the leaves and blossoms and earliest ripened or 
15 unripened fruits wither and drop off, giving back to. the soil the 
nourishment they have drawn from it ; the whole top being thus 
otherwise wasted — that part of the hemp which every year the 
dreamy millions of the Orient still consume in quantities beyond 
human computation, and for the love of which the very history 
of this plant is lost in the antiquity of India and Persia, its 
home — land of narcotics and desires and dreams. 

Then the rakers with enormous wooden rakes; they draw 
the stalks into bundles, tying each with the hemp itself. Follow- 
ing the binders, move the wagon-beds or slides, gathering the 

2 5 bundles and carrying them to where, huge, flat, and round, the 

stacks begin to rise. At last these are well built; the gates of 
the field are closed or the bars put up ; wagons and laborers are 
gone; the brown fields stand deserted. 

One day something is gone from earth and sky : Autumn has 

3 come, season of scales and balances, when the Earth, brought 

to judgment for its fruits, says, "I have done what I could — now 
let me rest !" 

Fall! and everywhere the sights and sounds of falling. In 
• the woods, through the cool silvery air, the leaves, so indispensable 






20 



15 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 433 

once, so useless now. Bright day after bright day, dripping 
night after dripping night, the never-ending filtering or gusty fall 
of leaves. The fall of walnuts, dropping from bare boughs with 
muffled boom into the deep grass. The fall of the hickory-nut, 
rattling noisily down through the scaly limbs and scattering its 5 
hulls among the stones of the brook below. The fall of the 
buckeyes, rolling like balls of mahogany into the little dust paths 
made by sheep in the hot months when they had sought those 
roofs of leaves. The fall of acorns, leaping out of their matted 
green cups as they strike the rooty earth. The fall of red haw, 1° 
persimmon, and pawpaw, and the odorous wild plum in its valley 
thickets. The fall of all seeds whatsoever of the forest, now 
made ripe in their high places and sent back to the ground, there 
to be folded in against the time when they shall arise again as 
the living generations ; the homing, downward flight of the seeds 
in the many-colored woods all over the quiet land. 

In the fields, too, the sights and sounds of falling, the fall of 
the standing fatness. The silent fall of the tobacco, to be hung 
head downward in fragrant sheds and barns. The felling whack 
of the corn-knife and the rustling of the blades, as the workman 20 
gathers within his arm the top-heavy stalks and presses them 
into the bulging shock. The fall of pumpkins into the slow- 
drawn wagons, the shaded side of them still white with the morn- 
ing rime. In the orchards, the fall of apples shaken thunder- 
ously down, and the piling of these in sprawling heaps near the 
cider mills. In the vineyards the fall of sugaring grapes into 
the baskets and the bearing of them to the winepress in the cool 
sunshine, where there is the late droning of bees about the sweet 
pomace. 

But of all that the earth has yielded with or without the 30 
farmer's help, of all that he can call his own within the limits 
of his land, nothing pleases him better than those still brown 
fields where the shapely stacks stand amid the deadened trees. 
Two months have passed, the workmen are at it again. The 



25 



434 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

stacks are torn down, the bundles scattered, the hemp spread out 
as once before. There to lie till it shall be dew-retted or rotted ; 
there to suffer freeze and thaw, chill rains, locking frosts and 
loosening snows — all the action of the elements — until the gums 
5 holding together the filaments of the fibre rot out and dissolve, 
until the bast be separated from the woody portion of the stalk, 
and the stalk itself be decayed and easily broken. 

Some day you walk across the spread hemp ; your foot goes 
through at each step; you stoop, and taking several stalks, snap 

10 them readily in your fingers. The ends stick out clean apart; 
and lo! hanging between them, there it is at last — a festoon of 
wet, coarse, dark gray riband, wealth of the hemp, sail of the 
wild Scythian centuries before Horace ever sang of him, sail of 
the Roman, dress of the Saxon and Celt, dress of the Kentucky 

15 pioneer. 

The rakers reappear at intervals of dry weather, and draw 
the hemp into armfuls and set it up in shocks of convenient size, 
wide flared at the bottom, well pressed in and bound at the top, 
so that the slanting sides may catch the drying sun and the sturdy 

20 base resist the strong winds. And now the fields are as dark 
brown camps of armies — each shock a soldier's tent. Yet not 
dark always; at times snow-covered; and then the white tents 
gleam for miles in the winter sunshine — the snow-white tents of 
the camping hemp. 

2 5 Throughout the winter and on into early spring, as days may 

be warm or the hemp dry, the breaking continues. At each 
nightfall, cleaned and baled, it is hauled on wagon-beds or slides 
to the barns or the hemphouses, where it is weighed for the work 
and wages of the day. 

3 Last of all, the brakes having been taken from the field, some 

night— dear sport for the lads !— takes place the burning of the 
"hempherds," thus returning their elements to the soil. To 
kindle a handful of tow and fling it as a firebrand into one of 
those masses of tinder ; to see the flames spread and the sparks 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 435 

rush like swarms of red bees skyward through the smoke into 
the awful abysses of the night; to run from gray heap to gray 
heap, igniting the long line of signal fires, until the whole earth 
seems a conflagration and the heavens are as rosy as at morn; 
to look far away and descry on the horizon an array of answer- 5 
ing lights, not in one direction only, but leagues away, to see the 
fainter glow of burning hempherds— this, too, is one of the 
experiences, one of the memories. 

And now along the turnpikes the great loaded creaking 
wagons pass slowly to the towns, bearing the hemp to the 10 
factories, thence to be scattered over land and sea. Some day, 
when the winds of March are dying down, the sower enters the 
field and begins where he began twelve months before. 

A round year of the earth's changes enters into the creation 
of the hemp. The planet has described its vast orbit ere it be 
grown and finished. All seasons are its servitors ; all contradic- 
tions and extremes of nature meet in its making. The vernal 
patience of the warming soil; the long, fierce arrows of the 
summer heat; the long silvery arrows of the summer rain; 
autumn's dead skies and sobbing winds; winter's sternest, 2 
all-tightening frosts. Of none but strong virtues is it the sum ; 
sickness or infirmity it knows not. It will have a mother young 
and vigorous, or none ; an old or weak or exhausted soil cannot , 
produce it. It will endure no roof of shade, basking only in the 
eye of the fatherly sun and , demanding the whole sky for the 25 
walls of its nursery. 

Ah! type, too, of our life, which also is earth-sown, earth- 
rooted; which must struggle upward, be cut down, rooted and 
broken, ere the separation take place between our dross and our 
worth— poor perishable shard and immortal fibre. ^ Oh, the 
mystery, the mystery of that growth from the casting of the 
soul as a seed into the dark earth, until the time when, led 
through all natural changes and cleansed of weakness, it is borne 
from the field of its nativity for the long service. 



436 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

THOMAS NELSON PAGE 
Born in Hanover County, Va., 1853; his home is Washington, D .C 

THE OLD VIRGINIA LAWYER* 

I knew him only in his latter days; but I have known those 
who knew him well, and thus I have come to have some knowl- 
edge of him; and as he has passed away it seems to me well 
that some memory of him should be preserved. He was a 
notable personage; a character well worth preserving; a con- 
stituent part of our civilization. He was the most considerable 
man of the county. The planter, the preacher, and the doctor 
were all men of position and consideration; but the old lawyer 
surpassed them all. Without the wealth of the planter, the 
authority of the clergyman, or the personal affection which was 
the peculiar possession of the family physician, the old lawyer 
held a position in the county easily first. He was, indeed, as 
has been aptly said, a planter, though he was not that primarily. 
Primarily he was a lawyer. He managed his farm only by 
the way. 

Often, perhaps generally, he was of good family and social 
connection ; or if he was not, he was a man of such native force 
of mind and character that he had made and maintained his 
position without such adventitious aids, in a social system to the 
aristocratic exclusiveness of which his was the single exception. 
Generally, he was both clever and ambitious ; for a son who was 
not was put on a plantation, or into the church, or, if he was 
only clever, was made a doctor. If he were both exceptionally 
clever and ambitious, he chose the Bar. 

He had the prestige of a college education, (except in the 
instance mentioned, where by his natural powers he had, without 
such aid, made himself), and his education was an education 
indeed, not a mere cramming of the memory with so many facts 
or so many statements concerning so many things. 



15 



20 



25 



30 



*From the Report of the Virginia Bar Association, 1891. 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 437 

His training was not always that of the modern law-class ; but 
it was more than a substitute for it ; and it was of its own kind, 
complete. He "read law under" some old lawyer, some friend 
of his father or himself who, although not a professor, was, 
without professing it, an admirable teacher. He associated with 5 
him constantly, in season and out of season; he saw him in his 
every mood ; he observed him in intercourse with his clients, with 
his brothers of the Bar, with the outside world; he heard him 
discourse of law, of history, of literature, of religion, of 
philosophy; he learned from him to ponder every manifestation 10 
of humanity; to consider the great underlying principles into 
which every proposition was resolvable; he found in him an 
exemplification of much that he inculcated, and a frank avowal 
of that wherein he failed. Thus in due time when his work 
came he was fully equipped. His old tutor had not only taught 15 
him law; he had taught him that the law was a science, and a 
great, if not the greatest science. 

He carried his library and his wardrobe in his saddle-bags. 
If, however, his law library was scant, his literary library was 
much more complete; on the shelves of his book-presses were the 2 
classics, both Latin and English, all testifying use, for nothing 
there was for show. These he knew ; he not only read them, but 
loved them; he associated with them; he reveled in them. The 
poets and sages of the past were his" teachers, his friends. 

He had made his mark, perhaps unexpectedlv, in some case 25 
in which the force of his maturing intellect had suddenly burst 
forth, astonishing alike the Bar and the Bench, and enrapturing 
the public. Perhaps it was a criminal case; perhaps one in 
which equity might be on his side, with the law dead against 
him ; and which was regarded by older men with the conservatism 30 
of age as impossible until, by his brilliant effort, he unexpectedly 
won it. As like as not he rode forty miles that night to give a 
flower to his sweetheart. 



10 



438 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

From this time his reputation, his influence and his practice 
increased. His professional position was henceforth assured. 
He had risen from a tyro to be an old lawyer. 

He married early, and for love, the daughter of a gentleman, 
very likely the old lawyer with whom he had read law ; perhaps 
a beauty and a belle who, with many suitors, chose the young 
lawyer, whom older men were beginning to speak of, and younger 
men were always following; who had brought her the news of 
his victory that night, and who could cope with her father in a 
discussion or disdainfully destroy a younger disputant. He took 
her to live on some poor plantation, in an old house which stood 
amid great oaks and hickories with scanty furniture and a few 
luxuries, yet which, under their joint influence, became an old 
Virginia home, and a center of hospitality and refinement. Here 
he lived, not merely had his being, a machine or part of a 
machine ; but lived, and what a life it was ! The body fed and 
kept in health ; the soul free from vice and debasement, dwelling 
in constant intercourse with a beautiful being; in communion, if 
not with God, at least with his two chief ministers — nature and 
a gracious, gentle and pure woman; the intellect nourished by 
association with a pure spirit, by contact with the best thought 
of ancient and modern times, and by constant and philosophic 
reflection. The world prospered ; friends surrounded him ; young 
children with their mother's eyes came and played about his feet, 
with joyous voices making his heart content. Thus he grew, 
his circle ever widening as the circle of our horizon widens as 
we climb toward Heaven. These were some of the influences 
which created him. 

Let me mention one of the chief. Tt was his wife. She 
3 believed in him ; she worshiped him. She knew he ought to be 
Chief Justice of the United States. She was the supreme 
presence which made his home and gave him in large part his 
distinctive character. She ruled his house, regulated his domestic 
affairs, and was his chief minister. In. all matters within the 



20 



25 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 439 

curtilage, indeed, she was the head. Within this boundary and 
in all that pertained thereto, with a single exception, she was 
supreme. That exception was his old desk or " secretary." It 
was sacred even from her, consecrated to him alone. There were 
kept piles of old letters, and bundles of old papers in what 5 
appeared to her orderly mind was a strange confusion; but 
which he always declared was the perfectness of order, though 
it invariably took him a long time to find any particular paper 
he might want, a difficulty which he attributed to the occasion 
when she had once, shortly after marriage, attempted in his 10 
absence to "put things in order." Since then she had regarded 
the desk and its contents with profound reverence. He repaid 
her by holding her as the incarnation of all wisdom and virtue. 
He stood before her as before an inscrutable and superior being. 
He entrusted to her all his personal affairs, temporal and 15 
spiritual. He could not have secured an abler administrator. 
She was his complement, the unseen influence which made him 
what he was. She created the atmosphere in which he shone. 

His professional life, once begun, went on. The law is an 
enlistment for life and the battle is ever in array. No client who 2 
appeared with the requisite certificate of clientage was ever 
refused. There was no picking and choosing. The old lawyer 
was a sworn officer of the court, a constituent element of the 
great juridical system of the country. Whoever wanted legal 
advice, and applied to him for it, was entitled to it and received 2 5 
it. From that moment the relation of counsel and client began. 
It was a sacred relation. His clients were his "clients" in the 
good old original sense of the term. They were not merely 
persons who came into an office and bought and paid for so much 
professional service; they were his clients, who confided in his 3 
protection, and received it. The requisite preliminaries, it is 
true, had to be satisfactorily arranged ; the client had to recognize 
his importance ; his authority as his counsel ; the good fortune he 
had in securing his services ; he had to promise to transfer to him 



440 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

a proper portion of his personal estate as a proof that he did 
understand the full measure of this good fortune, and then he 
became his counsel. From this moment the client had obtained 
the use of a new force. From this moment he "had counsel." 
5 Every power and every resource were devoted to his service. 
No time was too precious to be spent, no labor too arduous to 
be endured in his behalf. Body, mind and soul, his counsel had 
flung himself into his cause; guided by his professional instinct, 
spurred by his professional pride, he identified himself with his 

10 client's cause, ready to live for it, fight for it, and if necessary 
even die for it. Public opinion had nothing to do with his under- 
taking a case. He thought but of his profession. He would, 
if applied to, defend a client whom if not applied to he would 
willingly have hung. 

1 5 Once in a case, he never gave up ; if possible he carried it on 

to success, or if he were defeated he expended every intellectual 
resource in trying to recover; he was ready to move for new 
trials, to appeal, to apply for rehearings, and if at the end he 
were still unsuccessful, he went down abusing every one opposed 

2 to him, counsel, client and Bench as a parcel of fools who did 
not know the law when he put it under their very noses. 
No wonder that the clients regarded their counsel with such 
veneration. 

In a trial he was a new being; his eye brightened; his senses 

2 5 quickened; his nerves thrilled; his form straightened; every 

power, every force was called into play ; he was no longer a mere 
lawyer, he was a gladiator in an intellectual contest where the 
intellect was strung to its highest pitch ; a soldier fighting for a 
cause where reason was wrought in plain, pure, unmistakable 

3 nakedness ; where every force of the human mind was called into 

action, and every chord of the human heart was at hand to be 
played upon. 

Before a judge he was powerful; for he argued from the 
bed-rock principles. This was his strength. He was trained to 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 441 

it. Often retained on the court green just before the case was 
called at bar, in out-of-the-way places where there were no books, 
he was forced to rely upon his reason; and his reason and his 
cause equally prospered. One of his maxims was : "Common law 
is common sense." Another was : "The reason of the law is the 5 
life of the law." He did not need books ; as was said, no man 
had more contempt for authorities, no man had more respect for 
authority. 

But if he was potent before a judge, before a jury he was 
supreme. For pleading he had little or no respect. It was to 10 
be accepted as one of the eccentricities of the profession ; it was 
like some of the unaccountable and inscrutable things in the old 
dispensation, to be accepted in silence; it was a mystery. His 
great aim was to come to the jury. He often filed a blank 
declaration, secure in the knowledge that his opponent would take 1 5 
no advantage of him, knowing that next time he might file a 
blank declaration himself. The real thing was, in the words of 
one of them, "to brush away the little chinquapin-bush p'ints 
and get at the guts of the case." 

He held men generally in some contempt; but as they 2 
approached in the scale to the dignity of members of the Bar, 
his estimation of them rose. The old clerks, as standing in a 
close relation to the Bar, were his friends; stood high in his 
regard, and were admitted to a share of his intimacy. The 
Bench he treated with all respect, his true feelings for the persons 2 5 
who had sat on it being perhaps sometimes veiled, as it was the 
position, not the man, that he respected; but his affection, his 
enthusiasm was reserved for the Bar. The profession of the law 
was to him the highest of all professions. It was a brotherhood ; 
it was sacred; it maintained the rights of man, preserved the 30 
government, controlled the administration of law. It was the 
profession which created the liberties of man and preserved the 
rights of man. 

Membership in it was a patent to the possessor, a free 



442 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

masonry, a tie like that of close common blood which made 
every member of the Bar "a brother lawyer." Every member 
was assumed to be all right, in virtue of his position, without 
further question; when one failed and was found wanting, he 
5 dropped out. Special terms of reprobation were adopted, such as 
"Shyster" and "Pettifogger," the full significance of which was 
known only to the profession. The extreme penalty was dis- 
barring. It was deemed as great a disgrace as any other criminal 
sentence. Shrewdness might possibly save the malefactor this 

10 extreme result; but if he were guilty he was sentenced by the 
opinion of the Bar in its severest term. He was "unpro- 
fessional." 

These things maintained an exalted standard in the profes- 
sion. They created a sustaining atmosphere. Wherever the old 

15 lawyer went he felt it sensibly. He could not be a lawyer and 
not be a better and a stronger man. He recognized it ; he made 
others recognize it; it was a controlling motive in his life. He 
practiced on this basis, and as a result he elevated his profession 
and made it better than he found it. 

2 In conversation he was brilliant. The whole field of law, 

of literature, history, philosophy, was his domain. In all of 
them he ranged at will, exhibiting a knowledge, an intelligence, 
a critical faculty, which was astonishing. Though he never wrote 
a line, he was a philosopher, a wit, a poet. His knowledge of 

2 5 human nature was profound. It was his chief study. He 

nearly always spoke of men in the aggregate with contempt; of 
the times as "degenerate" ; yet in actual intercourse his conduct 
was at variance with his talk ; he treated every one with respect. 
He was in ordinary intercourse serious even to gravity, as one 

3 who bore heavy responsibilities; it was only with his particular 

friends at home, or with his "brothers of the Bar" on circuit, that 
he unbent. His fund of anecdote was inexhaustible. He told 
stories which kept his companions roaring; told them with inimi- 
table aptness and delicious humor; among them he was a boy, 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 443 

jovial, rolicking ; yet, let but a fool approach, and he was dignity 
itself. To young lawyers he was all kindness. He treated them 
with a courtesy which was knightly, with a gentleness and con- 
sideration which were tenderness. He called them in private 
intercourse by their names, with that flattering familiarity so 5 
pleasing to young men. In public he referred to them as "the 
learned counsel" or "very distinguished young brother." They 
repaid it by worshiping him. 

He was more charitable than the rector; no one ever appealed 
to him for aid in vain ; he would lend even if he had to borrow 1 
to do it. "His pity gave ere charity began." He knew every 
man in his circuit, knew him and his father, and often his 
grandfather before him; knew his history and all his concerns; 
was privy (not in the legal sense) to his whole life, and to his 
every act, frequently to the lives of his parents ; for his familiarity 1 5 
with the affairs of his section was minute, universal. 

His reputation, like his infirmities, increased with his years. 
In his latter days he was often forced against his will into political 
life, where he achieved immediate renown. If he did not enter 
politics, often he was more potent than if he did. He was called 2 
on in times of great popular fervor or excitement to speak to 
the people, who relied upon him. Generally his eloquence was 
overwhelming. He made speeches the reputation of which long 
survived him. He died poor, leaving no written memorial of his 
labors ; often his very name was in a generation or two forgot. 2 5 
But he was the best missed man in his section. He was missed 
by all ; but most of all by the poor, by the helpless, by widows 
and orphans. It was only after he passed away that his deeds 
of kindness were known; that his full worth was recognized. 
As when a great oak is overthrown by the tempest, its magnitude 3 
can be told by the hole it has made, so after he passed men came 
to know how great he had been by the void he left. Tradition 
took up his name and handed down stories of his prowess at the 
Bar which lived, though as time passed they were attached to 



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444 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

other names, and his was lost. There was recorded no memorial 
of his work at the Bar; but for all that his work survived. He 
left as the fruit of his labors that which he himself would have 
deemed the highest reward: much charity done in secret, a good 
name, and an unsullied profession. 



WILLIAM SIDNEY PORTER 
"0. HENRY" 

Born in Greensboro, N. C, 1862; died in New York City, 1910 

THE GIFT OF THE MAGI 

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And 
sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two 
at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and 
the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation 
of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Delia 
counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next 
day would be Christmas. 

There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby 
little couch and howl. So Delia did it. Which instigates the 
moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, 
with sniffles predominating. 

While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from 
the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A 
furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar descrip- 
tion, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the 
mendicancy squad. 

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter 
would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger 
could coax a rine\ Also appertains? thereunto was a card 
bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young " 

The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a 
former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 445 

$30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, the 
letters of "Dillingham" looked blurred, as though they were 
thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. 
But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and 
reached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged 5 
by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as 
Delia. Which is all very good. 

Delia finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the 
powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at 
a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. To-morrow 01 
would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to 
buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could 
for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go 
far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They 
always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. 61 
Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice 
for him. Something fine and rare and sterling — something just 
a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned 
by Jim. 

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. 02 
Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin 
and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid 
sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate concep- 
tion of his looks. Delia, being slender, had mastered the art. 

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the 52 
glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost 
its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her 
hair and let it fall to its full length. 

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham 
Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was 03 
Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. 
The other was Delia's hair. Had the Queen of Sheba lived in 
the flat across the airshaft, Delia would have let her hair hang 
out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's 



446 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all 
his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled 
out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his 
beard from envy. 
5 So now Delia's beautiful hair fell about her, rippling and 

shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her 
knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she 
did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for 
a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn 
10 red carpet. 

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. 
With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her 
eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street. 

Where she stopped the sign read: "Mme. Sofronie. Hair 
15 Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Delia ran, and collected 
herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked 
the "Sofronie." 

" Will you buy my hair ?" asked Delia. 

"I buy hair," said Madame. 'Take yer hat off and let's have 
2 a sight at the looks of it." 

Down rippled the brown cascade. 

"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a 
practiced hand. 

"Give it to me quick," said Delia. 
25 Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget 
the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's 
present. 

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and 
no one else There was no other like it in any of the stores. 
30 and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum 
fob chain, simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its 
value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamenta- 
tion—as all good things should do. It was even worthy of 
The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 447 

Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value — the description 
applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, 
and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on 
his watch, Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any 
company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it 5 
on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in 
place of a chain. 

When Delia reached home her intoxication gave way a little 
to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and 
lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by 10 
generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, 
dear friends — a mammoth task. 

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close- 
lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant school- 
boy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, 15 
and critically. 

"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes 
a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus 
girl. But what could I do — oh ! what could I do with a dollar 
and eighty-seven cents?" 20 

At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on 
the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops. 

Jim was never late. Delia doubled the fob chain in her hand 
and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always 
entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on 2 5 
the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She 
had a habit of saying little silent prayers about the simplest 
everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please God, make 
him think I am still pretty." 

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He 3 
looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty- 
two — and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new 
overcoat and he was without gloves. 

Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the 



448 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Delia, and there was 
an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified 
her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, 
nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He 
5 simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on 
his face. 

Delia wriggled off the table and went for him. 
"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had 
my hair cut off and sold it because I couldn't have lived through 
10 Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again — 
you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows 
awfully fast. Say 'Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. 
You don't know what a nice — what a beautiful, nice gift I've 
got for you." 
15 "You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he 

had not arrived at that patent fact yet, even after the hardest 
mental labor. 

"Cut it off and sold it," said Delia. "Don't you like me just 
as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?" 
2 Jim looked about the room curiously. 

"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost 
of idiocy. 

"You needn't look for it," said Delia. "It's sold, I tell you— 
sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, 
25 for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were 
numbered," she went on with a sudden serious sweetness, "but 
nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops 
on, Jim?" 

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded 
30 his Delia. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny 
some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars 
a week or a million a year — what is the difference? A mathe- 
matician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi 



THE SOUTHERN WRITERS 449 

brought vaulable gifts, but that was not among them. This 
dark assertion will be illuminated later on. 

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it 
upon the table. 

"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't 5 
think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a 
shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll 
unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while 
at first." 

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And 10 
then an ecstatic scream of joy ; and then, alas ! a quick feminine 
change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate 
employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat. 

For there lay The Combs — the set of combs, side and back, 
that Delia had worshipped for long in a Broadway window. 15 
Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jeweled rims— just the 
shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expen- 
sive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and 
yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And 
now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned 2 
the coveted adornments were gone. 

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was 
able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair 
grows so fast, Jim!" 

And then Delia leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, 2 5 
"Oh, oh!" 

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out 
to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal 
seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit. 

"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. 30 
You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. 
Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it." 

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put 
his hands under the back of his head and smiled. 



450 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

"Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and 
keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I 
sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now 
suppose you put the chops on." 
6 The magi, as you know, were wise men — wonderfully wise 

men— who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They 
invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their 
gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of 
exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related 

10 to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat 
who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures 
of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days, 
let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. 
Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. 

15 Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi. 



WRITERS OF MIDDLE AND WESTERN STATES 



GETTYSBURG SPEECH 

Abraham Lincoln (1809-1865) 

Fourscore and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth on 
this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated 
to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are 
engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any 
nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are 
met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate 
a portion of that field as a final resting-place for those who here 
gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether 
fitting and proper that we should do this. But in a larger sense 
we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this 
ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, 
have consecrated it far above our poor power to add or detract. 
The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here, 
but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the 
living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which 
they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is 
rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining 
before us,— that from these honored dead we take increased 
devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure 
of devotion,— that we here highly resolve that these dead shall 
not have died in vain,— that this nation, under God, shall have 
a new birth of freedom,— and that government of the people, by 
the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth. 



(451) 



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452 .READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 



WALT WHITMAN 
Born on Long Island, N. Y., 1819 ; died in Camden, N. J., 1892 

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! 

O Captain ! my Captain ! our fearful trip is done ; 
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won ; 
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, 
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring: 
But O heart! heart! heart! 
O the bleeding drops of red, 

Where on the deck my Captain lies, 
Fallen cold and dead. 

O Captain ! my Captain ! rise up and hear the bells ; 

Rise up — for you the flag is flung— for you the bugle trills, 

For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths — for you the shores 

a-crowding ; 
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; 
Here Captain! dear father! 

This arm beneath your head ! 

It is some dream that on the deck 
Youve fallen cold and dead. 

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still ; 
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will ; 
The ship is anehor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done; 
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won ; 
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! 
But I, with mournful tread, 

Walk the deck my Captain lies, 
Fallen cold and dead. 



10 



WRITERS OF MIDDLE AND WESTERN STATES 453 

AS TOILSOME I WANDER'D VIRGINIA'S WOODS 

As toilsome I wander'd Virginia's woods, 

To the music of rustling leaves kick'd by my foot (for 'twas 

autumn), 
I mark'd at the foot of a tree the grave of a soldier, 
Mortally wounded he and buried on the retreat (easily all could 

I understand) ; 
The halt of a midday hour, when up ! no time to lose— yet this 

sign left, 
On a tablet scrawl'd and nailed on the tree by the grave, — 
Bold, cautious, true, and my loving comrade. 

Long, long I muse, then on my way go wandering ; 

Many a changeful season to follow, and many a scene of life ; 

Yet at times through changeful season and scene, abrupt, alone, 
or in the crowded street, 

Comes before me the unknown soldier's grave — comes the inscrip- 
tion rude in Virginia's woods, — 

Bold, cautious, true, and my loving comrade. 

WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOOR-YARD BLOOM'D 

(Selections) 

When lilacs last in the door-yard bloom'd, 

And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night, 

I mourn'd — and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring. 

O ever-returning spring ! trinity sure to me you bring ; 
Lilac blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west, 
And thought of him I love. 

O powerful western fallen star! 

O shades of night ! O moody, tearful night ! 25 

O great star disappear'd ! O the black murk that hides the star ! 
O cruel hands that hold me powerless ! O helpless soul of me ! 
O harsh surrounding cloud, that will not free my soul ! 



454 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

In the door-yard fronting an old farmhouse, near the white- 
washed palings, 

Stands the lilac bush, tall-growing, with heart-shaped leaves of 
rich green, 
5 With many a pointed blossom, rising, delicate, with the perfume 
strong I love, 

With every leaf a miracle . . . and from this bush in the door- 
yard, 

With delicate-color'd blossoms, and heart-shaped leaves of rich 
1 green, 

A sprig, with its flower, I break. 

In the swamp, in secluded recesses, 

A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song. 

Solitary, the thrush, 
1 5 The hermit, withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements, 
Sings by himself a song. 
Song of the bleeding throat ! 

Death's outlet song of life — (for well, dear brother, I know, 
If thou wast not gifted to sing thou would'st surely die). 

2 ° Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities, 

Amid lanes, and through old woods (where lately the violets 

peep'd from the ground, spotting the gray debris) ; 
Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes — passing the 

endless grass ; 
Passing the yellow-speared wheat, every, grain from its shroud 

in the dark-brown fields uprising; 
Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards ; 
Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave, 
Night and day journeys a coffin. 



WRITERS OF MIDDLE AND WESTERN STATES 455 

Coffin that passes through lanes and streets, 

Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land, 

With the pomp of the in-loop'd flags, with the cities draped in 

black, 
With the show of the States themselves as of crape-veil'd women 6 

standing, 
With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the 

night, 
With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces and 

the unbared heads, l0 

With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces, 
With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising 

strong and solemn ; 
With all the mournful voices of the dirges pour'd around the 

coffin, 15 

The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs — where amid 

these you journey, 
With the tolling, tolling bells' perpetual clang, 
Here, coffin that slowly passes, 
I give you my sprig of lilac. 20 

Sing on, there in the swamp ! 

singer bashful and tender, I hear your notes, I hear you call, 

1 hear, I come presently, I understand you, 

But a moment I linger, for the lustrous star has detained me ; 

The star, my departing comrade, holds and detains me. 2 5 

O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved ? 
And how shall I deck my soul for the large sweet soul that has 

gone? 
And what shall my perfume be for the grave of him I love ? 



456 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Sea-wmds blown from east and west, 

Blown from the Eastern sea and blown from the Western sea, 

till there on the prairies meeting, 
These, and with these, and the breath of my chant, 
5 I perfume the grave of him I love. 

Sing on ! sing on, you gray-brown bird ! 

Sing from the swamps, the recesses — pour your chant from the 

bushes ; 
Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines. 

Sing on, dearest brother — warble your reedy song; 
Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe. 

O liquid, and free, and tender! 

O wild and loose to my soul ! O wondrous singer ! 

You only I hear ... yet the star holds me (but will soon 

depart) ; 
Yet the lilac, with mastering odor, holds me. 



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To the tally of my soul. 

Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird 

With pure, deliberate notes, spreading, filling the night. 

Loud in the pines and cedars dim, 

Gear in the freshness moist and the swamp-perfume ; 

And I with my comrades there in the night. 

While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed, 
As to long panoramas of visions. 

I saw askant the armies ; 

I saw as in noiseless dreams hundreds of battle-flags, 



WRITERS OF MIDDLE AND WESTERN STATES 457 

Borne through the smoke of the battles and pierc'd with missiles, 

I saw them, 
And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and 

bloody ; 
And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs (and all in silence), 5 
And the staffs all splintered and broken. 

I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them, 

And the white skeletons of young men, I saw them ; 

I saw the debris and debris of all the slain soldiers of the war. 

But I saw they were not as was thought, *0 

They themselves were fully at rest, they suffer'd not ; 

The living remain'd and suffer'd, the mother suffer'd, 

And the wife and the child, and the musing comrade suffer'd, 

And the armies that remained suffer'd. 

Passing the visions, passing the night ; 15 

Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades' hands ; 

Passing the song of the hermit bird and the tallying song of my 
soul, 

Victorious song, death's outlet song, yet varying ever-altering 

song, 2 

As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling, flood- 
ing the night, 

Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet 
again bursting with joy, 

Covering the earth and filling the spread of the heaven, 2 5 

As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses, 

Passing, I leave thee lilac with heart-shaped leaves, 

I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning with 
spring. 



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458 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

I cease from my song for thee, 

From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, communing 

with thee, 
O comrade lustrous with silver face in the night. 

Yet each I keep and all, retrievements out of the night ; 

The song, the wondrous chant of the gray-brown bird, 

And the tallying chant, the echo arous'd in my soul, 

With the lustrous and drooping star, with the countenance full 

of woe, 
With the lilac tall, and its blossoms of mastering odor ; 
With the holders holding my hand, nearing the call of the bird, 
Comrades mine, and I in the midst, and their memory ever I 

keep — for the dead I loved so well ; 
For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands . . . and 

this for his dear sake ; 
Lilac and star and bird, twined with the chant of my soul, 
There in the fragrant pines, and the cedars dusk and dim. 



BEDOUIN SONG 

Bayard Taylor (1825-1878) 
From the Desert I come to thee 

On a stallion shod with fire ; 
And the winds are left behind 
In the speed of my desire. 
Under thy window I stand, 

And the midnight hears my cry: 
I love thee, I love but thee, 
With a love that shall not die 
Till the sun grows cold, 
And the stars are old, 
And the leaves of the Judgment 
Book unfold! 



WRITERS OF MIDDLE AND WESTERN STATES 459 

Look from thy window and see 

My passion and my pain ; 
I lie on the sands below, 

And I faint in thy disdain. 
Let the night-winds touch thy brow 5 

With the heat of my burning sigh, 
And melt thee to hear the vow 
Of a love that shall not die 
Till the sun grows cold, 

And the stars are old, 10 

And the leaves of the Judgment 
Book unfold! 

My steps are nightly driven, 
By the fever in my breast, 
To hear from thy lattice breathed 1 5 

The word that shall give me rest. 
Open the door of thy heart, 

And open thy chamber door, 
And my kisses shall teach thy lips 

The love that shall fade no more 2 

Till the sun grows cold, 
And the stars are old, 
And the leaves of the Judgment 
Book unfold! 



SAMUEL LANGHORNE CLEMENS 

"MARK TWAIN" 

Barn in Florida, Mo. ; died in Redding, Conn., 1910 

THE CELEBRATED JUMPING FROG OF CALAVERAS COUNTY 

In compliance with the request of a friend of mine, who 25 
wrote me from the East, I called on good-natured, garrulous old 
Simon Wheeler, and inquired after my friend's friend, Leonidas 



460 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

W. Smiley, as requested to do, and I hereunto append the result. 
1 have a lurking suspicion that Leonidas W. Smiley is a myth; 
that my friend never knew such a personage; and that he only 
conjectured that, if I asked old Wheeler about him, it would 
5 remind him of his infamous Jim Smiley, and he would go to 
work and bore me nearly to death with some infernal reminis- 
cence of him as long and tedious as it should be useless to me. 
If that was the design, it certainly succeeded. 

I found Simon Wheeler dozing comfortably by the bar-room 

10 stove of the old, dilapidated tavern in the ancient mining camp 
of Angel's, and I noticed that he was fat and bald-headed, and 
had an expression of winning gentleness and simplicity upon his 
tranquil countenance. He roused up and gave me good-day. 
I told him a friend of mine had commissioned me to make some 

15 inquiries about a cherished companion of his boyhood named 
Leonidas W . Smiley — Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley — a young min- 
ister of the Gospel, who he had heard was at one time a resident 
of Angel's Camp. I added that if Mr. Wheeler could tell me 
anything about this Rev. Leonidas W r . Smiley, I would feel under 

2 many obligations to him. 

Simon Wheeler backed me into a corner and blockaded me 
there with his chair, and then sat me down and reeled off the 
monotonous narrative which follows this paragraph. He never 
smiled, he never frowned, he never changed his voice from the 
25 gentle-flowing key to which he turned the initial sentence, he 
never betrayed the slightest suspicion of enthusiasm; but all 
through the interminable narrative there ran a vein of impres- 
sive earnestness and sincerity, which showed me plainly that, 
so far from his imagining that there was anything ridiculous or 

3 funny about his story, he regarded it as a really important matter, 

and admired its two heroes as men of transcendent genius in 
finesse. To me, the spectacle of a man drifting serenely along 
through such a queer yarn without ever smiling was exquisitely 
absurd. As I said before, I asked him to tell me what he knew 



WRITERS OF MIDDLE AND WESTERN STATES 461 

of Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, and he replied as follows. I let 
him go on in his own way, and never interrupted him once : — 

There was a feller here once by the name of Jim Smiley, in 
the winter of '49 — or may be it was the spring of '50 — I don't 
recollect exactly, somehow, though what makes me think it was 5 
one or the other is because I remember the big flume wasn't 
finished when he first came to the camp; but, anyway, he was 
the curiousest man about always betting on anything that turned 
up you ever see, if he could get anybody to bet on the other 
side; and if he couldn't, he'd change sides. Any way that suited 10 
the other man would suit him — any way, just so's he got a bet, 
he was satisfied. But still he was lucky, uncommon lucky; he 
most always come out winner. He was always ready and laying 
for a chance; there couldn't be no solitary thing mentioned but 
that feller'd offer to bet on it, and take any side you please, as 15 
I was just telling you. If it was a horse-race, you'd find him 
flush, or you'd find him busted at the end of it; if there was a 
dog-fight, he'd bet on it ; if there was a cat-fight, he'd bet on it ; 
if there was a chicken-fight, he'd bet on it; why, if there was 
two birds setting on a fence, he would bet you which one would 2 
fly first; or if there was a camp-meeting, he would be there 
reg'lar, to bet on Parson Walker, which he judged to be the best 
exhorter about here, and so he was, too, and a good man. If he 
even seen a straddle-bug start to go anywhere, he would bet you 
how long it would take him to get to wherever he was going to, 2 5 
and if you took him up, he would foller that straddle-bug to 
Mexico but what he would find out where he was bound for and 
how long he was on the road. Lots of the boys here has seen 
that Smiley, and can tell you about him. Why, it never made 
no difference to him — he would bet on any thing — the dangdest 3 
feller. Parson Walker's wife laid very sick once, for a good 
while, and it seemed as if they warn't going to save her ; but one 
morning he come in, and Smiley asked how she was, and he 
said she was considerable better — thank the Lord for his inf'nit 



10 



15 



462 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

mercy — and coming on so smart that, with the blessing of Prov* 
dence, she'd get well yet; and Smiley, before he thought, says, 
"Well, I'll risk two-and-a-half that she don't, anyway." 

Thish-yer Smiley had a mare — the boys called her the fifteen- 
minute nag, but that was only in fun, you know, because, of 
course, she was faster than that — and he used to win money 
on that horse, for all she was so slow and always had the asthma, 
or the distemper, or the consumption, or something of that kind. 
They used to give her two or three hundred yards start, and 
then pass her under way; but always at the fag-end of the race 
she'd get excited and desperate-like, and come cavorting and 
straddling up, and scattering her legs around limber, sometimes 
in the air, and sometimes out to one side amongst the fences, 
and kicking up m-o-r-e dust, and raising m-o-r-e racket with her 
coughing and sneezing and blowing her nose — and always fetch 
up at the stand just about a neck ahead, as near as you could 
cipher it down. 

And he had a little small bull pup, that to look at him you'd 
think he warn't worth a cent, but to set around and look ornery, 

2 and lay for a chance to steal something. But as soon as money 
was up on him, he was a different dog; his underjaw'd begin to 
stick out like the fo'castle of a steamboat, and his teeth would 
uncover, and shine savage like the furnaces. And a dog might 
tackle him, and bully-rag him, and bite him, and throw him over 

2 5 his shoulder two or three times, and Andrew Jackson — which was 
the name of the pup— Andrew Jackson would never let on but 
what he was satisfied, and hadn't expected nothing else — and the 
bets being doubled and doubled on the other side all the time, 
till the money was all up; and then all of a sudden he would 
grab that other dog jest by the j'int of his hind leg and freeze 
to it— not chaw, you understand, but only jest grip and hang on 
till they throwed up the sponge, if it was a year. Smiley always 
come out winner on that pup, till he harnessed a dog once that 
didn't have no hind legs, because they'd been sawed off by a 



30 






WRITERS OF MIDDLE AND WESTERN STATES 463 

circular saw, and when the thing had gone along far enough, 
and the money was all up, and he come to make a snatch for 
his pet holt, he saw in a minute how he'd been imposed on, and 
how the other dog had been in the door, so to speak, and he 
'peared surprised, and then he looked sorter discouraged-like, and 5 
didn't try no more to win the fight, and so he got shucked out 
bad. He give Smiley a look, as much as to say his heart was 
broke, and it was his fault, for putting up a dog that hadn't no 
hind legs for him to take holt of, which was his main dependence 
in a fight, and then he limped off a piece and laid down and died. 10 
It was a good pup, was that Andrew Jackson, and would have 
made a name for hisself if he'd lived, for the stuff was in him, 
and he had genius — I know it, because he hadn't had no oppor- 
tunities to speak of, and it don't stand to reason that a dog could 
make such a fight as he could under them circumstances, if he 15 
hadn't no talent. It always makes me feel sorry when I think 
of that last fight of his'n, and the way it turned out. 

Well, thish-yer Smiley had rat-tarriers, and chicken cocks, 
and tom-cats, and all them kind of things, till you couldn't rest, 
and you couldn't fetch nothing for him to bet on but he'd match 2 
you. He ketched a frog one day, and took him home, and said 
he cal'klated to edercate him; and so he never done nothing for 
three months but set in his back yard and learn that frog to 
jump. And you bet you he did learn him too. He'd give him 
a little punch behind, and the next minute you'd see that frog 2 5 
whirling in the air like a doughnut — see him turn one summerset, 
or may be a couple, if he got a good start, and come down 
flat-footed and all right, like a cat. He got him up so in the 
matter of catching flies, and kept him in practice so constant, 
that he'd nail a fly every time as far as he could see him. Smiley 30 
said all a frog wanted was edercation, and he could do most any 
thing — and I believe him. Why, I've seen him set Dan'l 
Webster down here on this floor — Dan'l Webster was the name 
of the frog — and sing out, "Flies, Dan'l, flies!" and quicker'n 



10 



15 



464 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

you could wink, he'd spring straight up, and snake a fly off'n 
the counter there, and flop down on the floor again as solid as 
a gob of mud, and fall to scratching the side of his head with 
his hind foot as indifferent as if he hadn't no idea he'd been 
doin' any more'n any frog might do. You never see a frog so 
modest and straight-for'ard as he was, for all he was so gifted. 
And when it come to fair and square jumping on a dead level, 
he could get over more ground at one straddle than any animal 
of his breed you ever see. Jumping on a dead level was his 
strong suit, you understand; and when it come to that, Smiley 
would ante up money on him as long as he had a red. Smiley 
was monstrous proud of that frog, and well he might be, for 
fellers that had traveled and been every wheres, all said he laid 
over any frog that ever they see. 

Well, Smiley kept the beast in a little lattice box, and he 
used to fetch him down town sometimes and lay for a bet. One 
day a feller — a stranger in the camp, he was — come across him 
with his box, and says: 

"What might it be that you've got in the box ?" 

20 And Smiley says, sorter indifferent-like, "It might be a parrot, 

or it might be a canary, may be, but it an't — it's only just a 
frog." 

And the feller took it and looked at it careful, and turned it 
round this way and that, and says, "H'm— so 'tis. Well, what's 

25 A* good for?" 

"Well," Smiley says, easy and careless, "He's good enough 
for one thing, I should judge — he can out jump ary frog in 
Calaveras county." 

The feller took the box again, and took another long, par- 

30 ticular look, and give it back to Smiley, and says, very deliberate, 
"Well, I don't see no p'ints about that frog that's any better'n 
any other frog." 

"May be you don't," Smiley says. "May be you understand 
frogs, and may be you don't understand 'em ; may be you've had 



10 



WRITERS OF MIDDLE AND WESTERN STATES 465 

experience, and may be you an't only a amature, as it were. 
Anyways, I've got my opinion, and I'll risk forty dollars that he 
can out jump any frog in Calaveras county." 

And the feller studied a minute, and then says, kinder sad 
like, "Well, I'm only a stranger here, and I ain't got no frog; 
but if I had a frog, I'd bet you." 

And then Smiley says, "That's all right— that's all right— if 
you'll hold my box a minute, I'll go and get you a frog." And 
so the feller took the box, and put up his forty dollars along 
with Smiley's, and set down to wait. 

So he set there a good while thinking and thinking to hisself , 
and then he got the frog out and prized his mouth open and took 
a teaspoon and filled him full of quail shot— filled him pretty 
near up to his chin — and set him on the floor. Smiley he went 
to the swamp and slopped around in the mud for a long time, 15 
and finally he ketched a frog, and fetched him in, and give him 
to this feller, and says : 

"Now, if you're ready, set him alongside of Dan'l, with his 
forepaws just even with Dan'l, and I'll give the word." Then 
he says, "One— two— three— jump !" and him and the feller 2 
touched up the frogs from behind, and the new frog hopped off, 
but Dan'l give a heave, and hysted up his shoulders — so — like a 
Frenchman, but it warn't no use — he couldn't budge; he was 
planted as solid as an anvil, and he couldn't no more stir than 
if he was anchored out. Smiley was a good deal surprised, and 2 5 
he was disgusted too, but he didn't have no idea what the matter 
was, of course. 

The feller took the money and started away; and when he 
was going out of the door, he sorter jerked his thumb over his 
shoulders — this way — at Dan'l, and says again, very deliberate, 30 
"Well, / don't see no p'ints about that frog that's any better'n 
any other frog." 

Smiley he stood scratching his head and looking down at Dan'l 
a long time, and at last he says, "I do wonder what in the nation 



10 



15 



20 



25 



466 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

that frog throw'd off for— I wonder if there an't something the 
matter with him — he pears to look mighty baggy, somehow." 
And he ketched Dan'l by the nap of the neck, and lifted him up 
and says, "Why, blame my cats, if he don't weigh five pound !" 
and turned him upside down, and he belched out a double handful 
of shot. And then he see how it was, and he was the maddest 
man — he set the frog down and took out after that feller, but he 
never ketched him. And — 

(Here Simon Wheeler heard his name called from the front 
yard, and got up to see what was wanted.) And turning to me 
as he moved away, he said, "Just set where you are, stranger, and 
rest easy— I an't going to be gone a second." 

But, by your leave, I did not think that a continuation of the 
history of the enterprising vagabond Jim Smiley would be likely 
to afford me much information concerning the Rev. Leonidas W. 
Smiley, and so I started away. 

At the door I met the sociable Wheeler returning, and he 
buttonholed me and recommenced : 

"Well, thish-yer Smiley had a yaller one-eyed cow that didn't 
have no tail, only jest a short stump like a bannanner, and — " 

"Oh, hang Smiley and his afflicted cow!" I muttered, good- 
naturedly, and bidding the old gentleman good-day, I departed. 



BRET HARTE 

Born in Albany, N. Y., 1836; lived in California, 1854-71; 

died in England, 1902 

TENNESSEE'S PARTNER 
I do not think that we ever knew his real name. Our 
ignorance of it certainly never gave us any social inconvenience, 
for at Sandy Bar in 1854 most men were christened anew. 
Sometimes these appellatives were derived from some distinc- 
tiveness of dress, as in the case of "Dungaree Jack"; or from 



WRITERS OF MIDDLE AND WESTERN STATES 467 

some peculiarity of habit, as shown in "Saleratus Bill," so called 

from an undue proportion of that chemical in his daily bread; 

or from some unlucky slip, as exhibited in "The Iron Pirate," 

a mild, inoffensive man, who earned that baleful title by his 

unfortunate mispronunciation of the term "iron pyrites." Per- 5 

haps this may have been the beginning of a rude heraldry ; but 

I am constrained to think that it was because a man's real name 

in that day rested solely upon his own unsupported statement. 
* * * * * * * 

But to return to Tennessee's Partner, whom we never knew 10 
by any other than this relative title. That he had ever existed 
as a separate and distinct individuality we only learned later. It 
seems that in 1858 he left Poker Flat to go to San Francisco, 
ostensibly to procure a wife. He never got any farther than 
Stockton. At that place he was attracted by a young person who 15 
waited upon the table at the hotel where he took his meals. One 
morning he said something to her which caused her to smile not 
unkindly, to somewhat coquettishly break a plate of toast over 
his upturned, serious, simple face, and to retreat to the kitchen. 
He followed her, and emerged a few moments later, covered with 2 
more toast and victory. That day week they were married by a 
justice of the peace, and returned to Poker. 
******* 

Meanwhile a popular feeling against Tennessee had grown 
up on the Bar. He was known to be a gambler ; he was suspected 2 5 
to be a thief. In these suspicions Tennessee's Partner was equally 
compromised. 
******* 

At last Tennessee's guilt became flagrant. One day he over- 
took a stranger on his way to Red Dog. The stranger afterward 30 
related that Tennessee beguiled the time with interesting anecdote 
and reminiscence, but illogically concluded the interview in the 
following words : "And now, young man, I'll trouble you for your 
knife, your pistols, and your money. You see your weppings 



10 



15 



468 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

might get you into trouble at Red Dog, and your money's a 
temptation to the evilly disposed. I think you said your address 
was San Francisco. I shall endeavor to call." It may be stated 
here that Tennessee had a fine flow of humor, which no business 
preoccupation could wholly subdue. 

This exploit was his last. Red Dog and Sandy Bar made 

common cause against the highwayman. Tennessee was hunted 

in very much the same fashion as his prototype, the grizzly. As 

^the toils closed around him, he made a . desperate dash through 

the Bar, emptying his revolver at the crowd before the Arcade 

Saloon, and so on up Grizzly Canon ; but at its farther extremity 

he was stopped by a small man on a gray horse. The men looked 

at each other a moment in silence. Both were fearless, both 

.self-possessed and independent, and both types of a civilization 

jthat in the seventeenth century would have been called heroic, 

but in the nineteenth simply "reckless." 

"What have you got there ? — I call," said Tennessee quietly. 
"Two bowers and an ace," said the stranger as quietly, show- 
ing two revolvers and a bowie-knife. 
20 "That takes me," returned Tennessee ; and, with this gambler's 

epigram, he threw away his useless pistol and rode back with 
his captor. 

It was a warm night. The cool breeze which usually sprang 
up with the going down of the sun behind the chaparral-crested 
25 mountain was that evening withheld from Sandy Bar. The little 
canon was stifling with heated resinous odors, and the decaying 
driftwood on the Bar sent forth faint sickening exhalations. The 
feverishness of day and its fierce passions still filled the camp. 
Lights moved restlessly along the bank of the river, striking no 
3 answering reflection from its tawny current. Against the black- 
ness of the pines the windows of the old loft above the express- 
office stood out staringly bright; and through their curtainless 
panes the loungers below could see the forms of those who were 



WRITERS OF MIDDLE AND WESTERN STATES 469 

even then deciding the fate of Tennessee. And above all this, 
etched on the dark firmament, rose the Sierra, remote and pas- 
sionless, crowned with remoter passionless stars. 

The trial of Tennessee was conducted as fairly as was con- 
sistent with a judge and jury who felt themselves to some extent 5 
obliged to justify, in their verdict, the previous irregularities of 
arrest and indictment. The law of Sandy Bar was implacable, 
but not vengeful. The excitement and personal feeling of the 
chase were over; with Tennessee safe in their hands, they were 
ready to listen patiently to any defense, which they were already J 
satisfied was insufficient. There being no doubt in their own 
minds, they were willing to give the prisoner the benefit of any 
that might exist. Secure in the hypothesis that he ought to be 
hanged on general principles, they indulged him with more lati- 
tude of defense than his reckless hardihood seemed to ask. The 1 5 
Judge appeared to be more anxious than the prisoner, who, 
otherwise unconcerned, evidently took a grim pleasure in the 
responsibility he had created. "I don't take any hand in this 
yer game," had been his invariable but good-humored reply to all 
questions. The Judge — who was also his captor — for a moment 20 
vaguely regretted that he had not shot him "on sight" that morn- 
ing, but presently dismissed this human weakness as unworthy 
of the judicial mind. Nevertheless, when there was a tap at 
the door, and it was said that Tennessee's Partner was there on 
behalf of the prisoner, he was admitted at once without question. 2 5 
Perhaps the younger members of the jury, to whom the proceed- 
ings were becoming irksomely thoughtful, hailed him as a relief. 

For he was not, certainly, an imposing figure. Short and 
stout, with a square face, sunburned into a preternatural redness, 
clad in a loose duck "jumper" and trousers streaked and splashed 30 
with red soil, his aspect under any circumstances would have 
been quaint, and was now even ridiculous. As he stooped to 
deposit at his feet a heavy carpetbag he was carrying, it became 
obvious, from partially developed legends and inscriptions, that 



470 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

the material with which his trousers had been patched had been 
originally intended for a less ambitious covering. Yet he 
advanced with great gravity, and after shaking the hand of each 
person in the room with labored cordiality, he wiped his serious 
5 perplexed face on a red bandana handkerchief, a shade lighter 
than his complexion, laid his powerful hand upon the table to 
steady himself, and thus addressed the Judge : — 

"I was passin' by," he began, by way of apology, "and I 
thought I'd just step in and see how things was gittin' on with 
10 Tennessee thar — my pardner. It's a hot night. I disremember 
any sich weather before on the Bar." 

He paused a moment, but nobody volunteering any other 
meteorological recollection, he again had recourse to his pocket- 
handkerchief, and for some moments mopped his face diligently. 
15 "Have you anything to say on behalf of the prisoner?" said 

the Judge, finally. 

"Thet's it," said Tennessee's Partner, in a tone of relief. "I 
come yar as Tennessee's pardner, — knowing him nigh on four 
year, off and on, wet and dry, in luck and out o' luck. His 

2 ways ain't aller my ways, but thar ain't any p'ints in that young 

man, thar ain't any liveliness as he's been up to, as I don't know. 
And you sez to me, sez you, — confidential-like, and between man 
and man, — sez you, 'Do you know anything in his behalf?' and 
I sez to you, sez I, — confidential-like, as between man and man, — 
25 'What should a man know of his pardner?' " 

"Is this all you have to say?" asked the Judge, impatiently, 
feeling, perhaps, that a dangerous sympathy of humor was begin- 
ning to humanize the court. 

"Thet's so," continued Tennessee's Partner. "It ain't for me 

3 to say anything agin' him. And now, what's the case? Here's 

Tennessee wants money, wants it bad, and doesn't like to ask 
it of his old pardner. Well, what does Tennessee do? He lays 
for a stranger, and he fetches that stranger; and you lays for 



WRITERS OF MIDDLE AND WESTERN STATES 471 

him, and you fetches him; and the honors is easy. And I put 
it to you, bein' a fa'r-minded man, and to you, gentlemen all, as 
fa'r-minded men, ef this isn't so." 

"Prisoner," said the Judge, interrupting, "have you any ques- 
tions to ask this man?" 5 

"No! no!" continued Tennessee's Partner, hastily. "I play 
this yer hand alone. To come down to the bed-rock, it's just 
this : Tennessee, thar, has played it pretty rough and expensive- 
like on a stranger, and on this yer camp. And now, what's the 
fair thing? Some would say more, some would say less. Here's 10 
seventeen hundred dollars in coarse gold and a watch, — it's about 
all my pile,— and call it square !" And before a hand could be 
raised to prevent him, he had emptied the contents of the 
carpetbag upon the table. 

For a moment his life was in jeopardy. One or two men 15 
sprang to their feet, several hands groped for hidden weapons, 
and a suggestion to "throw him from the window" was only 
overridden by a gesture from the Judge. Tennessee laughed. 
And apparently oblivious of the excitement, Tennessee's Partner 
improved the opportunity to mop his face again with his hand- 2 
kerchief. 

When order was restored, and the man was made to under- 
stand, by the use of forcible figures and rhetoric, that Tennessee's 
offense could not be condoned by money, his face took a more 
serious and sanguinary hue, and those who were nearest to him 2 5 
noticed that his rough hand trembled slightly on the table. He 
hesitated a moment as he slowly returned the gold to the carpet- 
bag, as if he had not yet entirely caught the elevated sense of 
justice which swayed the tribunal, and was perplexed with the 
belief that he had not offered enough. Then he turned to the 30 
Judge, and saying, "This yer is a lone hand, played alone, and 
without my pardner," he bowed to the jury and was about to 
withdraw, when the Judge called him back : — 



472 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

"If you have anything to say to Tennessee, you had better 
say it now." 

For the first time that evening the eyes of the prisoner and 
his strange advocate met. Tennessee smiled, showed his white 
6 teeth, and saying, ''Euchred, old man !" held out his hand. Ten- 
nessee's Partner took it in his own, and saying, "I just dropped 
in as I was passin' to see how things was gettin' on," let the hand 
passively fall, and adding that "it was a warm night," again 
mopped his face with his handkerchief, and without another 

10 word withdrew. 

The two men never again met each other alive. For the 
unparalleled insult of a bribe offered to Judge Lynch — who, 
whether bigoted, weak, or narrow, was at least incorruptible — 
firmly fixed in the mind of that mythical personage any wavering 

15 determination of Tennessee's fate; and at the break of day he 
was marched, closely guarded, to meet it at the top of Marley's 
Hill. 

How he met it, how cool he was, how he refused to say 
anything, how perfect were the arrangements of the committee, 

20 were all duly reported, with the addition of a warning moral and 
example to all future evil-doers, in the "Red Dog Clarion," by 
its editor, who was present, and to whose vigorous English I 
cheerfully refer the reader. But the beauty of that midsummer 
morning, the blessed amity of earth and air and sky, the awakened 

25 life of the free woods and hills, the joyous renewal and promise 
of Nature, and, above all, the infinite serenity that thrilled through 
each, was not reported, as not being a part of the social lesson. 
And yet, when the weak and foolish deed was done, and a life, 
with its possibilities and responsibilities, had passed out of the 

30 misshapen thing that dangled between earth and sky, the birds 
sang, the flowers bloomed, the sun shone, as cheerily as before; 
and possibly the "Red Dog Clarion" was right. 

Tennessee's Partner was not in the group that surrounded 
the ominous tree. But as they turned to disperse, attention was 



WRITERS OF MIDDLE AND WESTERN STATES 473 

drawn to the singular appearance of a motionless donkey-cart 
halted at the side of the road. As they approached, they at once 
recognized the venerable "Jenny" and the two-wheeled cart as 
the property of Tennessee's Partner, used by him in carrying 
dirt from his claim; and a few paces distant the owner of the 5 
equipage himself, sitting under a buckeye-tree, wiping the per- 
spiration from his glowing face. In answer to an inquiry, he 
said he had come for the body of the "diseased," "if it was all 
the same to the committee." He didn't wish to "hurry anything" ; 
he could "wait." He was not working that day; and when the 10 
gentlemen were done with the "diseased," he would take him. 
"Ef thar is any present," he added, in his simple, serious way, 
"as would care to jine in the fun'l, they kin come." Perhaps it 
was from a sense of humor, which I have already intimated was 
a feature of Sandy Bar, — perhaps it was from something even 15 
better than that, but two-thirds of the loungers accepted the 
invitation at once. 

It was noon when the body of Tennessee was delivered into 
the hands of his partner. As the cart drew up to the fatal tree, 
we noticed that it contained a rough oblong box, — apparently 2 
made from a section of sluicing, — and half -filled with bark and 
the tassels of pine. The cart was further decorated with slips 
of willow and made fragrant with buckeye-blossoms. When the 
body was deposited in the box, Tennessee's Partner drew over it 
a piece of tarred canvas, and gravely mounting the narrow seat 2 5 
in front, with his feet upon the shafts, urged the little donkey 
forward. The equipage moved slowly on, at that decorous pace 
which was habitual with Jenny even under less solemn circum- 
stances. The men — half -curiously, half -jestingly, but all good- 
humoredly — strolled along beside the cart, some in advance, some 3 
a little in the rear of the homely catafalque. But whether from 
the narrowing of the road or some present sense of decorum, as 
the cart passed on, the company fell to the rear in couples, 
keeping step, and otherwise assuming the external show of a 



10 



474 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

formal procession. Jack Folinsbee, who had at the outset played 
a funeral march in dumb show upon an imaginary trombone, 
desisted from a lack of sympathy and appreciation, — not having, 
perhaps, your true humorist's capacity to be content with the 
enjoyment of his own fun. 

The way led through Grizzly Canon, by this time clothed in 
funereal drapery and shadows. The redwoods, burying their 
moccasined feet in the red soil, stood in Indian file along the 
track, trailing an uncouth benediction from their bending boughs 
upon the passing bier. A hare, surprised into helpless inactivity, 
sat upright and pulsating in the ferns by the roadside as the 
cortege went by. Squirrels hastened to gain a secure outlook 
from higher boughs; and the blue-jays, spreading their wings, 
fluttered before them like outriders, until the outskirts of Sandy 
I 5 Bar were reached, and the solitary cabin of Tennessee's Partner. 
Viewed under more favorable circumstances, it would not 
have been a cheerful place. The unpicturesque site, the rude and 
unlovely outlines, the unsavory details, which distinguish the nest- 
building of the California miner, were all here with the dreariness 
20 of decay superadded. A few paces from the cabin there was a 
rough inclosure, which, in the brief days of Tennessee's Partner's 
matrimonial felicity, had been used as a garden, but was now 
overgrown with fern. As we approached it, we were surprised 
to find that what we had taken for a recent attempt at cultivation 
25 was the broken soil about an open grave. 

The cart was halted before the inclosure, and rejecting the 
offers of assistance with the same air of simple self-reliance he 
had displayed throughout, Tennessee's Partner lifted the rough 
coffin on his back, and deposited it unaided within the shallow 
30 grave. He then nailed down the board which served as a lid, 
and mounting the little mound of earth beside it, took off his 
hat and slowly mopped his face with his handkerchief. This 
the crowd felt was a preliminary to speech, and they disposed 
themselves variously on stumps and boulders, and sat expectant. 



WRITERS OF MIDDLE AND WESTERN STATES 475 

When a man," began Tennessee's Partner, slowly, "has been 



10 



15 



running free all day, what's the natural thing for him to do? 
Why, to come home. And if he ain't in a condition to go home, 
what can his best friend do? Why, bring him home. And 
here's Tennessee has been running free, and we brings him home 
from his wandering." He paused and picked up a fragment of 
quartz, rubbed it thoughtfully on his sleeve, and went on: "It 
ain't the first time that I've packed him on my back, as you see'd 
me now. It ain't the first time that I brought him to this yer 
cabin when he couldn't help himself; it ain't the first time that 
I and Jinny have waited for him on yon hill, and picked him 
up and so fetched him home, when he couldn't speak and didn't 
know me. And now that it's the last time, why"— he paused 
and rubbed the quartz gently on his sleeve — "you see it's sort of 
rough on his pardner. And now, gentlemen," he added abruptly, 
picking up his long-handled- shovel, "the fun'l's Over; and my 
thanks, and Tennessee's thanks, to you for your trouble." 

Resisting any proffers of assistance, he began to fill in the 
grave, turning his back upon the crowd, that after a few 
moments' hesitation gradually withdrew. As they crossed the 2 
little ridge that hid Sandy Bar from view, some, looking back, 
thought they could see Tennessee's Partner, his work done, 
sitting upon the grave, his shovel between his knees, and his face 
buried in his red bandana handkerchief. But it was argued by 
others that you couldn't tell his face from his handkerchief at 2 5 
that distance, and this point remained undecided. 

In the reaction that followed the feverish excitement of that 
day, Tennessee's Partner was not forgotten. A secret investiga- 
tion had cleared him of any complicity in Tennessee's guilt, and 
left only a suspicion of his general sanity. Sandy Bar made a 3 <> 
point of calling on him, and proffering various uncouth but 
well-meant kindnesses. But from that day his rude health and 
great strength seemed visibly to decline; and when the rainy 



476 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

season fairly set in, and the tiny grass-blades were beginning to 
peep from the rocky mound above Tennessee's grave, he took 
to his bed. 

One night, when the pines beside the cabin were swaying in 
the storm and trailing their slender fingers over the roof, and 
the roar and rush of the swollen river were heard below, Ten- 
nessee's Partner lifted his head from the pillow, saying, "It is 
time to go for Tennessee; I must put Jinny in the cart"; 
and would have risen from his bed but for the restraint of his 
attendant. Struggling, he still pursued his singular fancy: 
"There, now, steady, Jinny, — steady, old girl. How dark it is! 
Look out for the ruts, — and look out for him, too, old gal. 
Sometimes, you know, when he's blind drunk, he drops down 
right in the trail. Keep on straight up to the pine on the top of 
the hill. Thar! I told you so! — thar he is, — coming this way, 
too, — all by himself, sober, and his face a-shining. Tennessee ! 
Pardner !" 

And so they met. 



EDWARD ROWLAND SILL 
Born in Windsor, Conn., 1841 ; died in Cleveland, O., 1887 

THE FOOL'S PRAYER 

The royal feast was done ; the king 
Sought some new sport to banish care, 

And to his jester cried : "Sir Fool, 

Kneel now, and make for us a prayer ! ,: 



16 



20 



The jester doffed his cap and bells, 
And stood the mocking court before ; 
25 They could not see the bitter smile 

Behind the painted grin he wore. 



WRITERS OF MIDDLE AND WESTERN STATES 477 

He bowed his head, and bent his knee 

Upon the monarch's silken stool; 
His pleading voice arose: "O Lord, 

Be merciful to me, a fool ! 

"No pity, Lord, could change the heart 5 

From red with wrong to white as wool : 
The rod must heal the sin ; but, Lord, 

Be merciful to me, a fool ! 

" Tis not by guilt the onward sweep 

Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay; l0 

'Tis by our follies that so long 

We hold the earth from heaven away. 

"These clumsy feet, still in the mire, 

Go crushing blossoms without end; 
These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust 15 

Among the heart-strings of a friend. 

"The ill-timed truth we might have kept — 
Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung! 

The word we had not sense to say — 

Who knows how grandly it had rung! 20 

"Our faults no tenderness should ask, 

The chastening stripes must cleanse them all ; 

But for our blunders — oh, in shame 
Before the eyes of heaven we fall. 

"Earth bears no balsam for mistakes; 25 

Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool 

That did his will ; but thou, O Lord, 
Be merciful to me, a fool !" 



478 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

The room was hushed ; in silence rose 
The king and sought his gardens cool, 

And walked apart, and murmured low, 
"Be merciful to me, a fool !" 



EUGENE FIELD 

Born in St. Louis, Mo., 1850; died in Chicago, 1895 

WYNKEN, BLYNKEN, AND NOD 

5 Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night 

Sailed off in a wooden shoe, — 
Sailed on a river of crystal light 

Into a sea of dew. 
"Where are you going, and what do you wish?" 
10 The old moon asked the three. 

"We have come to fish for the herring fish 
That live in this beautiful sea ; 
Nets of silver and gold have we," 
Said W T ynken, 
1 5 Blynken, 

And Nod. 

The old moon laughed and sang a song, 
As they rocked in the wooden shoe ; 
And the wind that sped them all night long 
2 Ruffled the waves of dew ; 

The little stars were the herring-fish 

That lived in the beautiful sea. 
"Now cast your nets wherever you wish, — 
Never af eared are we !" 
545 So cried the stars to the fishermen three, 

Wynken , 
Blynken, 
And Nod. 






WRITERS OF MIDDLE AND WESTERN STATES 479 

All night long their nets they threw 

Tc the stars in the twinkling foam, — 
Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe, 

Bringing the fishermen home : 
'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed 5 

As if it could not be ; 
And some folks thought t'was a dream they'd dreamed 
Of sailing that beautiful sea ; 
But I shall name you the fishermen three : 

Wynken, ! ° 

Blynken, 

And Nod. 

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, 

And Nod is a little head, 
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies 15 

Is a wee one's trundle-bed; 
So shut your eyes while Mother sings 

Of wonderful sights that be, 
And you shall see the beautiful things 
As you rock on the misty sea 
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three, — 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And Nod. 



20 



LITTLE BOY BLUE 

The little toy dog is covered with dust, 
But sturdy and stanch he stands ; 

And the little toy soldier is red with rust, 
And his musket moulds in his hands. 

Time was when the little toy dog was new, 



25 



480 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE • 

And the soldier was passing fair ; 
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue 
Kissed them and put them there. 

"Now, don't you go till I come/' he said, 
5 "And don't you make any noise !" 

So, toddling off to his trundle-bed, 

He dreamt of the pretty toys. 
And, as he was dreaming, an angel song 
Awakened our Little Boy Blue — 
1 Oh ! the years are many, the years are long, 

But the little toy friends are true ! 

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, 

Each in the same old place, 
Awaiting the touch of a little hand, 
15 The smile of a little face; 

And they wonder, as waiting the long years through 

In the dust of that little chair, 
What has become of our Little Boy Blue, 

Since he kissed them and put them there. 



JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 
Born in Greenfield, Ind., 1854; died in Indianapolis, Ind., 1916 

WHEN SHE COMES HOME 

20 When she comes home again ! A thousand ways 

I fashion, to myself, the tenderness 
Of my glad welcome : I shall tremble — yes ; 
And touch her, as when first in the old days 
I touched her girlish hand, nor dared upraise 

25 Mine eyes, such was my faint heart's sweet distress. 

Then silence : and the perfume of her dress : 



WRITERS OF MIDDLE AND WESTERN STATES 481 

The room will sway a little, and a haze 

Cloy eyesight — soulsight, even — for a space ; 

To know that I so ill deserve the place 

Her arms make for me ; and the sobbing note 

I stay with kisses, ere the tearful face 6 

Again is hidden in the old embrace. 

A LIFE-LESSON* 
There ! little girl ; don't cry ! 

They have broken your doll, I know ; 
And your tea-set blue, 

And your play-house, too, 10 

Are things of the long ago ; 

But childish troubles will soon pass by. — 
There ! little girl ; don't cry ! 



There ! little girl ; don't cry ! 

They have broken your slate, I know ; 
And the glad, wild ways 
Of your school-girl days 
Are things of the long ago ; 
But life and love will soon come by. — 
There ! little girl ; don't cry ! 

There ! little girl ; don't cry ! 

They have broken your heart, I know ; 
And the rainbow gleams 
Of your youthful dreams 
Are things of the long ago ; 

But Heaven holds all for which you sigh. — 
There ! little girl ; don't cry ! 



15 



20 



25 



♦From the Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley, copyright, 1913. 
Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Co. 



10 



482 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

JOAQUIN MILLER (1841-1912) 
WESTWARD HO! 

What strength ! what strife ! what rude unrest ! 

What shocks ! what half-shaped armies met ! 

A mighty nation moving west, 

With all its steely sinews set 

Against the living forests. Hear 

The shouts, the shots of pioneer, 

The rended forests, rolling wheels, 

As if some half-check'd army reels, 

Recoils, redoubles, comes again, 

Loud sounding like a hurricane. 



20 



O bearded, stalwart, westmost men, 

So tower-like, so Gothic built ! 

A kingdom won without the guilt 

Of studied battle, that hath been 

Your blood's inheritance. * * * Your heirs 

Know not your tombs : the great plowshares 

Cleave softly through the mellow loam 

Where you have made eternal home, 

And set no sign. Your epitaphs 

Are writ in furrows. Beauty laughs 

While through the green ways wandering 

Beside her love, slow gathering 

White, starry-hearted May-time blooms 

Above your lowly leveled tombs ; 

And then below the spotted sky 

She stops, she leans, she wonders why 

The ground is heaved and broken so, 

And why the grasses darker grow 

And droop and trail like wounded wing. 



WRITERS OF MIDDLE AND WESTERN STATES 483 

Yea, Time, the grand old harvester, 

Has gather'd you from wood and plain. 

We call to you again, again ; 

The rush and rumble of the car 

Comes back in answer. Deep and wide 5 

The wheels of progress have passed on ; 

The silent pioneer is gone. 

His ghost is moving down the trees, 

And now we push the memories 

Of bluff, bold men who dared and died 10 

In foremost battle, quite aside. 

COLUMBUS 

Behind him lay the gray Azores, 

Behind the Gates of Hercules ; 
Before him not the ghost of shores, 

Before him only shoreless seas. 1 5 

The good mate said : "Now must we pray, 

For lo ! the very stars are gone. 
Brave Admiral, speak, what shall I say?" 

"Why, say, 'Sail on ! sail on ! and on !' " 

"My men grow mutinous day by day ; 20 

My men grow ghastly wan and weak." 
The stout mate thought of home ; a spray 

Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. 
"What shall I say, brave Admiral, say, 

If we sight naught but seas at dawn?" 2 5 

"Why you shall say at break of day, 

'Sail on ! sail on ! sail on ! and on !' " 

They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow, 

Until at last the blanched mate said : 
"Why, now not even God would know 



484 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Should I and all my men fall dead. 
Those very winds forget their w^v, 

For God from these dread seas is pone; 
Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say" — 
5 He said : "Sail on ! sail on ! and on !" 

They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate 

"This mad sea shows his teeth to-night. 
He curls his lip, he lies in wait, 

With lifted teeth, as if to bite ! 
10 Brave Admiral, say but one good word: 

What shall we do when hope is gone?" 
The words leaped like a leaping sword : 

"Sail on ! sail on ! sail on ! and on !" 



15 



20 



Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck, 

And peered through darkness. Ah, that night 
Of all dark nights ! And then a speck — 

Alight! Alight! Alight! Alight! 
It grew, a starlit flag unfurled ! 

It grew to be Time's burst of dawn. 
He gained a world ; he gave that world 

Its grandest lesson : "On ! sail on !" 



NOTES 



COTTON MATHER 
The Charity of Master John Eliot 

Cotton Mather wrote more than four hundred books and pamphlets, 
of which the Magnolia Christi Americana is the masterpiece. This 
immense work contains over a thousand pages and is concerned with 
a variety of subjects : "the discovery and settlement of the new land, the 
lives of the New England governors, the lives of distinguished ministers, 
the history of Harvard College, an account of the churches, a record of 
many wonderful providences." 

Page 11, line 1. Eliot: "The Apostle to the Indians" was born at 
Nasing, Essex, England, in 1604; died at Roxbury, Massachusetts, in 
1690. His principal work is a translation of the Bible into an Indian 
(Algonquin) language (1661-63). He also wrote an Indian catechism and 
grammar. 

P. 11, 1. 8. Forcible importunity: Strong appeal. 

P. 11, 1. 11. Roxbury: Founded in 1630 and annexed to Boston in 
1868. 

P. 11, 1. 19. Like that worthy and famous English general: Probably 
Cromwell, the Puritan hero. 

P. 12, 1. 12. Great age: He died at the age of eighty-six. 

P. 13, 1. 18 Stomach: Temper; also, disposition, courage, pride. 

P. 13, 1. 20. Curfew: A bell rung at night in the towns of England, 
after the Norman Conquest, as a signal for extinguishing fires and lights. 

P. 14, 1. 4. Irenaeus: One of the greatest of the early fathers of the 
Christian church. He owed his name, which means "peace-maker" to 
his efforts to harmonize the factions in the church. 

P. 14, 1. 5. Epiphanius: A church father and one of the founders of 
monastieism, 315-402, A. D. 

P. 14, 1. 15. Apprecations: Invocation; prayers. 

P. 14, 1. 20. Lay his holy hands: The act of placing the hands on the 
head of another, in order to confer spiritual benefits, power or authority. 

WILLIAM BYRD 
The First Survey in the Dismal Swamp 
P. 14, 1. 24. Sixty-one poles: A pole is a measuring rod used in sur- 

485 



486 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

veying, and is 16^ feet long. It is usually marked off in foot spaces, 
which are painted in contrasting colors so as to be distinguishable at a 
distance. 

P. 15, 1. 26. Sixty-four chains: A chain was a surveying measure the 
length of four poles, or 66 feet. Nowadays a chain is ordinarily 100 
feet long. 

P. 16, 1. 7. Younker: Youngster— a Dutch word. 

P. 16, 1. 10. Carbonade: Broil. 

P. 17, 1. 9. Faustina: A Roman empress. 

P. 17, 1. 9. Farinelli: Carlo Broschi, or Farinelli, 1705-1782, was a 
celebrated Italian singer. 

P. 17, 1. 25. Good omen: The ancients placed great faith in certain 
signs, which they thought foretold the future. Among these were the 
flight and behavior of birds. See Shakespeare, Julius Caesar V, 3. The 
superstition seems to have lingered almost to modern times, or else Byrd 
writes in a playful sense. 

Colonial Dentistry 
P. 18, 1. 30. Geer: Mechanical arrangement. 

JONATHAN EDWARDS 
The Young Lady in New Haven 
Sarah Pierrepont, of New Haven, Conn., who became Edwards's wife. 
This poetic tribute was written in 1723 on a blank leaf of a book. 

Farewell Sermon 
In 1750, because of certain differences with his congregation, Jonathan 
Edwards was forced to resign as minister of the church at Northampton, 
Mass., after a service of over twenty years. His farewell sermon, from 
which this selection was taken, was preached on June 22, 1750. The 
extract shows Edwards's style at its best— earnest, restrained, and 
faintly poetic. 

P. 20, 1. 7. Danger: Edwards warned his congregation of the wrath 
to come in appalling terms. His famous sermon, "Sinners in the Hands 
of an Angry God," was almost overpowering. 

THOMAS GODFREY 

The Wish 
This poem is one of the most graceful lyrics of the promising young 



NOTES 



487 



Philadelphia dramatist, who died at the early age of twenty-seven. It 
is distinguished by simplicity of expression and beauty of theme. 

The Invitation 

This is a dialogue between Damon and Sylvia in the manner of the 
English "Cavalier Poets." From the American Magazine, 1758. 

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 

Franklin's best-known works are the Autobiography and Poor Rich- 
ard's Almanac. In the former, Franklin appears as a shrewd, practical 
and successful man of affairs; his development from youth to middle age 
is clearly revealed. In Poor Richard's Almanac may be found a wealth 
of proverbs, aphorisms, and maxims illustrating the author's common- 
sense philosophy of life. It was published from 1732 to 1757, and the 
name given it was taken from Richard Saunders, a noted London almanac 
maker. 

Franklin's Early Reading 

P. 25, 1. 3. Pilgrim's Progress: By John Bunyan. The first part of 
this famous allegorical story was written in 1676, the second in 1684 

P. 25, 1. 5. R. Burton: Richard Burton, 1577-1640, a celebrated Eng- 
lish writer, whose best work is The Anatomy of Melancholy. 

P. 25, 1. 6. Chapmen: Traders; pedlars who carried small books 

among their wares. . 

P. 25, 1. 11. Plutarch's Lives: Plutarch, a Greek historian, was born 
in 46, A D. He is famous as the author of a book on the lives of the 
great Greeks and Romans. 

P. 25, 1. 14. Essay on Projects: By Daniel Defoe, 1661-1731, the 
author of Robinson Crusoe. 

P. 25, 1. 25. Indentures: Deeds or sealed agreements between two or 

more parties. 

P. 25, 1. 27. Journeyman: Originally a workman who had served his 
period of apprenticeship and was free to go where he pleased. The term 
has come to mean an experienced workman, one entitled to full wages. 

P. 26, 1. 18. Teach: A famous pirate killed on the ISforth Carolina 
coast in 1718. 

P. 26, 1. 19. Grub Street: A street in London famous as the abode 
of hack writers who worked for very small pay. 

P. 27, 1. 29. Spectator: A London periodical jointly conducted by 
Steele and Addison. It ran from March, 1711 to December, 1712. 



488 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

The Way to Wealth 

P. 29, 1. 24. Badness of times: Hard times. 

P. 29, 1. 26. Father Abraham: An old man of eighty or thereabouts 
was often termed "Father Abraham" on account of his patriarchal 
appearance. 

P. 33, I 8. Indies: The West Indies, Mexico and South America, at 
that time mostly owned by Spain. 



PATRICK HENRY 

A Call to Arms 

This speech was delivered in the Virginia Convention of March, 1775, 
which met in St. John's Church, Richmond. 

P. 34, 1. 17. Siren: In Greek mythology, the sirens were sea-nymphs 
who lured sailors to their island by their beautiful singing and then 
destroyed them. 

P. 34, 1. 20. Having eyes, see not: See Jeremiah 5, 21; Ezekiel 12, 2. 

P. 34, 1. 33. Comports: Agrees, accords. 

P. 35, 1. 14. Shall we: Henry is very effective in his use of the 
rhetorical question. This speech is one of the most stirring and con- 
vincing appeals in the range of oratory. 

P. 35, t 24. Throne: Used figuratively; the reference is to the British 
administration, George III and his ministers. 

P. 36, 1. 24. Election: Choice. 



THOMAS JEFFERSON 

Opinion of France 

Jefferson was minister to France from 1784 to 1789 and, therefore, 
had an excellent opportunity to study the French character. 

P. 37, 1. 15. Themistocles: A famous Athenian who led the Greeks 
in the great sea-victory of Salamis. 

First Inaugural Address 

In this address, delivered at Washington on March 4, 1801, Jefferson 

asked for harmony between the two parties, Federalist and Republican, 

which were bitterly opposed at the time. He showed what a favorable 

position America occupied in being so widely separated from European 



NOTES 489 

wars and intrigues, and proceeded to lay down the principles of popular 
government as he understood them. The speech is terse, clear, and 
marked by frankness and dignity. 

P. 38, 1. 22. Vessel: Compare Longfellow, "Thou, too, sail on, O Ship 
of State." 

P. 38, 1. 29. Enounced: Obsolete form of enunciated. 

P. 39, 1. 19, Federalists: The Federalist party, formed in 1787 and 
led by John Adams and Alexander Hamilton, favored a strongly central- 
ized government 

P. 40, 1. 7. Exterminating havoc: Europe suffered from an almost 
continuous series of wars from the early part of the French Revolu- 
tion, 1792, to the battle of Waterloo, 1815. 

P. 41, 1. 22. Habeas Corpus: A legal writ, meaning literally "You 
may have the body," through the instrumentality of which a prisoner is 
surrendered by the prison authorities to a court for trial. It is mostly 
used in cases where the prisoner claims to be illegally confined. 

FRANCIS HOPKINSON 

The Battle of the Kegs 

In January, 1778, an American inventor, David Bushnell, filled some 
kegs with gunpowder, fitted them with a crude appliance to cause explo- 
sion, and let the primitive torpedoes float down toward the British war- 
ships in the harbor of Philadelphia. The kegs caused much confusion 
and alarm but did no damage. The ballad, typical of the poems of the 
Revolutionary period, is based on this incident. 

P. 43, 1. 13. Jerkin: A jacket or short coat. 

P. 44, 1. 18. Sir William Erskine: A general under Sir William 
Howe, the commander of the British forces. 

The Ballad of Nathan Hale 

Nathan Hale, a graduate of Yale College and a captain in the Amer- 
ican army, was taken prisoner while seeking information within the 
British lines, denied the attendance of a clergyman, and summarily hanged 
without a trial. He is considered one of the noblest martyrs of the 
Revolution. 

P. 46, 1. 10. Oh! hu-ush: A representation of the noise made by the 
wind in the pines. This figure is called "onomatopeia," that is, the imita- 
tion of sound; so we have the verbs "buzz" and "hum" and the nouns 
"pewit" and "whippoorwill." 



490 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

P. 46, 1. 11. Stilly stole: The figure used here is called "allitera- 
tion," that is, the employment of successive words beginning with the 
same letter. Note also the use of the repetitive sound of the last stanzaic 
line. 

P. 46, 1. 18. Cot: Cottage. 

TIMOTHY DWIGHT 

Columbia 

This noted song was written while Dwight was an army chaplain, 
1777-78, and was printed in Kettell's Specimens of American Poetry, 
1829. 

P. 48, 1. 15. Encrimson: To make red. 

P. 48, 1. 24. Main: The open sea; the ocean. 

JOHN TRUMBULL 

A Tory's Punishment 

Trumbull was one of the Hartford Wits and his chief work is 
McFingal, a satiric epic after the manner of Butler's Hudibras. It is 
the most famous satire of the Revolution. The extract is taken from 
Canto III of McFingal, and depicts the tarring and feathering of Squire 
McFingal, a Tory. 

P. 51, 1. 2. Jewish monarch's head: See Psalm 133. 

P. 51, 1. 5. Claudian: A Roman poet of the fourth century, A. D. 

P. 51, 1. 7. Enceladus: According to classic mythology, one of a race 
of giants that fought against the gods. 

P. 51, 1. 8. Pallas: The goddess of wisdom; also called Minerva. 

P. 51, 1. 31. Maia's son: Hermes, or Mercury. 

P. 51, 1. 33. Milton's six -winged angels: See Paradise Lost, V, 277. 

P. 52, 1. 2. Gorgon or Chimaera: Winged monsters of classic mythol- 
ogy. The word chimaera has come to mean a groundless fear or fancy. 

P. 52, 1. 3. Plato's plan: Plato, the Greek philosopher, defined man 
as "a twolegged animal without feathers." 

P. 52, 1. 8. Duumvirate: A government by two men. 

PHILIP FRENEAU 

The Indian Burying-Ground 
The Indian in burial was left with his arms and sufficient food to 



NOTES 491 

sustain him until the journey to his "happy hunting-grounds" was com- 
pleted. Freneau here uses new material — Indian life, tradition, and 
legend. One line of this poem, in the next to the last stanza, "the 
hunter and the deer — a shade!" was appropriated by the English poet 
Campbell. Sir Walter Scott also used a line from Freneau. 

The Wild Honeysuckle 

This bit of verse is similar in tone to Gray's Elegy and Young's 
Night Thoughts. Compare Wordsworth's lines: "She dwelt among the 
Untrodden Ways." 

To a Honey Bee 

This clever little poem is reminiscent of the English "Cavalier Poets." 

P. 55, 1. 22. Bacchus: The Roman god of wine and feasting. 

P. 56, 1. 25. Charon's boat: Charon was the ferryman of the dead 
over the river Styx in the lower world. 



CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN 
Edgar Huntly's Indian Adventure 

Brown is the first important American novelist. His works show 
the influence of the English romances of mystery and horror, popular in 
his day. It should be noted that Edgar Huntly is the first American 
novel containing an adventure with Indians. 

P. 57, 1. 4. Scored: Torn by brambles, or, possibly, tattooed. 

P. 57, 1. 16. Norwalk: A district in eastern Pennsylvania. 

P. 60, 1. 32. Rive: Split; cleave. 

P. 61, 1. 5. Imbrue: Drench. 

P. 65, 1. 8. Fraught: Filled with. 

P. 66, 1. 30. Guise: Appearance as to dress. 

P. 66, 1. 31. Dissipated: Scattered. 



JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 

The American Flag 
This is one of the finest of all patriotic poems. 
P. 68, 1. 6. Milky baldric: Milky way. 



492 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK 

On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake 
P. 70, 11. 7-8. The lines— 

"None knew thee but to love thee, 
Nor named thee but to praise," 
are among the most famous in American literature. 

Marco Bozzaris 

Bozzaris was a Greek general who was killed in an attack made on 
the Turks in 1823. 

P. 71, 1. 17. Suliote: A tribe living in Greece and noted for its resis- 
tance to the Turks. 

P. 71, 1. 22. Plataea: A battle of antiquity in which the Greeks de- 
feated an invading host of Persians. It is one of the most famous 
victories of all history. 

P. 73, 1. 20. World-seeking Genoese: Columbus. 



WASHINGTON IRVING 

Rip Van Winkle 

The story was published in The Sketch Book in 1819. Irving's source 
material was probably the local traditions of Henry Hudson and Indian 
myths of the Catskill region. The sleep-of-years theme is well known in 
folk-lore. In Grimm's Fairy Tales, the princess of "Rosebud, or the 
Sleeping Beauty," sleeps for a hundred years, until awakened by the kiss 
of a prince who finds her. The real source of the idea is the legend of 
the Emperor Frederick I, or Barbarossa, who was fabled to be sleeping 
in a cave in the Kyffhauser Mountain. The tale of "Peter Klaus" in 
Popular Traditions of the Harts Mountains — published in 1800 and possi- 
bly seen by Irving — somewhat resembles "Rip Van Winkle." 

P. 74, 1. 25. Catskill Mountains: These mountains, lying on the west 
side of the Hudson river, form a part of the Appalachian system. The 
highest elevation is about 4,000 feet. 

P. 75, 1. 17. Stuyvesant: Peter Stuyvesant, 1602-1682, was governor 
of the New Netherlands, as New York was called under Dutch rule, 
from 1647 to 1664. He was "a tough, sturdy, valiant, weather-beaten, 
mettlesome, obstinate, leathern-sided, lion-hearted, generous-spirited old 
governor with a wooden leg, of which he was so proud that he was often 
heard to declare he valued it more than all his other limbs put together." 






NOTES 493 

P. 75, 1. 27. Fort Christina: A Swedish settlement on the present site 
of Wilmington, Delaware. It was captured by Peter Stuyvesant. 

P. 76, 1. 22. Tartar: An Asiatic race of Mongolian blood noted for 
its warlike instincts. 

P. 77, 1. 16. Galligaskins: Loose trousers. 

P. 78, 1. 21. Rubicund: Inclining to redness; ruddy. 

P. 78, 1. 33. Junto: A number of men meeting for some purpose; a 
cabal, a clique. 

P. 82, 1. 31. Hollands: A strong spirit flavored with juniper, some- 
times called Holland gin. 

P. 85, 1. 25. Connubial: Pertaining to marriage; here, fear of the 
wife. 

P. 86, 1. 14. Phlegm: Heaviness of disposition; coldness, apathy. 

P. 86, 1. 32. Federal or Democrat: The opposing political parties in 
the early years of the republic. 

JAMES FENIMORE COOPER 

Running the Gauntlet 

This selection from the first American novelist of European recogni- 
tion comprises Chapter Twenty-three of The Last of the Mohicans 
(1826), probably the best of Cooper's "Leather-stocking Tales." The 
leading incident portrays the running of the gauntlet by a captive Del- 
aware, Uncas. Among the American Indians the practice of "running 
the gauntlet" was a favorite mode of torturing prisoners, many of whom 
died from wounds received from clubs, knives, spears, and other weapons. 
This incident is followed by an account of the summary punishment 
meted out to one of the members of their tribe by the Hurons, who would 
not tolerate cowardice. 

P. 94, 1. 33. Grand Monarque: Louis XV of France. The name 
properly applies to Louis XIV, the preceding French king. 

P. 95, 1. 17. Yengeese: The word "Yankee" is usually explained as a 
derivation from Yenkee or Yengee or Yaunghee, a name said to have 
been given the English colonists by the Massachusetts Indians and sup- 
posedly an Indian corruption of the word "English." The origin, how- 
ever, is doubtful. 

P. 98, 1. 22. Palsied: A form of paralysis from which a continued 
trembling results. 

P. 99, 1. 10. Imprecations: Curses. 

P. 101, 1. 5. Sacred Usage: If a person succeeded in running the 



4y4 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

gauntlet unscathed and reaching the goal, he was safe for a time from 
molestation, until the tribe assembled in council decided whether he was 
to be burned at the stake or granted his life. Some tribes regularly 
set free prisoners who emerged alive from the lane of death. 

P. 102, 1. 18. Termagant: A noisy person. "I would have such a 
fellow whipped for o'erdoing Termagant; it out-her«ds Herod." — Shake- 
speare, Hamlet, III, 2. 

P. 104, 1. 2. Lenni-Lenape: The Delaware Indians called themselves 
Lenni-Lenape, "original men" or "preeminent men." The French named 
them Loups (wolves) from their totem, or tribal symbol. 

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 

Thanatopsis 

The word "thanatopsis" is Greek and means "view" or "vision of 
death." The poem was first published in The North American Review 
in 1817, but was considerably altered later. 

P. 108, 1. 21. Barcan: Barca is a desert region in Northern Africa. 

P. 108, 1. 23. Oregon: The Oregon is now the Columbia. 

To a Waterfowl 
The lines "To a Waterfowl" were written when the poet was twenty- 
one or twenty-two years old, about the time he was beginning the practise 
of law. One December afternoon he was walking over the Massachusetts 
hills, on his way to the town of Plainfield to consider the practise of law 
there ; a splendid sunset was followed by a rosy afterglow, and a solitary 
bird was seen winging its way along the serene and lonely horizon. The 
lawyer-poet, who was feeling forlorn and discouraged, watched the bird 
until it was lost in the deepening twilight, and "then went on with new 
strength and courage." That night he composed the poem, "To a Water- 
fowl," with its lesson of faith, drawn from the flight of the lone wanderer 
in the evening skies. "It is indeed a noble lyric, tinged with melancholy, 
but deeply saturated with serene religious feeling and high beauty." 

To the Fringed Gentian 
The fringed gentian is a delicate blue flower, yellow at the bottom of 
the cup. 

More sad than cheery, making good sooth, 

Like the fringed gentian, a late autumn spring. 

—Lowell, "A Legend of Brittany," I, 16. 

Bryant is fond of writing about American flowers. His favorite 



NOTES 495 

seasons are fall and early spring; he seems to have little love for winter 
or summer. He usually adds a moral tag, so that his poetry overflows 
with natural .religion— with what Wordsworth calls the "religion of the 
woods." 

DANIEL WEBSTER 
The First Bunker Hill Oration 

Webster was elected president of the Bunker Hill Monument Associa- 
tion and funds were raised for a fitting memorial of the battle. The 
ceremonies attending the laying of the corner-stone took place on June 
17, 1825. It was an impressive occasion. There was a patriotic proces- 
sion, martial and civic, in which two hundred veterans of the Revolution 
participated, forty of them survivors of the battle of Bunker Hill. Lafay- 
ette, at that time touring the country, was the guest of honor. 

The battle of Bunker Hill was fought on June 17, 1775, chiefly at 
Breed's Hill, Charlestown, between 2,500 British under Howe and 1,500 
Americans under Prescott, Putnam, and Stark. The British lost 1,050 
men; the Americans 450, including General Joseph Warren, one of their 
most popular commanders. 

P. 116, 1. 18. Revolution: The French Revolution and Napoleonic 
wars. 

P. 118, 1. 16. Another morn: Milton, Paradise Lost, V, 310-11. 

P. 118, 1. 19. Him: Warren. 

P. 121, 1. 4. Sir: The Marquis de la Fayette, who was present. 

P. 122, 1. 10. Serus: "May you return late to heaven."— Horace, 
Carmina, I, 2, 45. 

P. 126, 1. 31. Dispel this cloud: See Homer, Iliad, Book XVII. 

P. 127, 1. 14. Struggle of the Greeks: The period of 1821-29 was the 
time of the Grecian war for independence. In 1830 the great powers 
declared Greece an independent state and she took her place among the 
countries of the world. Byron gave his life in the Greek war for liberty. 

FRANCIS PARKMAN 

An Indian Banquet 

The Oregon Trail (1849) is a record of Parkman's experiences among 

the Indian tribes of the far West. He wished to study the vanishing 

customs and habits of the Indians at first hand and, therefore, put up 

with great privations and hardships in his wandering life. 



496 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

P. 130, 1. 19. Raymond: A Canadian hunter, one of Parkman's guides. 

P. 130, 1. 24. Reynal: Parkman's interpreter, "a vagrant Indian 
trader" who had spent half of his life among Indians. 

P. 133, 1. 21. Black Hills: Low mountains in South Dakota, once 
the scene of extensive gold-mining. 

P. 137, 1. 17. Ogillallah: One of the tribes of the Sioux race. 

P. 137, 1. 29. Fort Laramie: An early military post, situated within 
the limits of the present State of Wyoming. 

P. 138, 1. 25. Snakes: An Indian tribe living chiefly in Montana and 
Idaho. 

RALPH WALDO EMERSON 

Concord Hymn 

These lines, as noble as any written by Emerson, celebrate the fight 
which took place at the Concord Bridge in 1775 between the local minute- 
men and the British. The river at that point is shallow, the current runs 
sluggishly, and the banks are fringed with rushes. On this spot a battle 
monument was unveiled on July 4, 1837, when the poem was sung. 
Emerson thus describes the fight at Concord : "A large amount of mili- 
tary stores had been deposited in this town by order of the Provincial 
Committee of Safety. It was to destroy these stores that the troops who 
were attacked in this town, on April 19, 1775, were sent hither by General 
Gage. Eight hundred British soldiers, under the command of Lieu- 
tenant-Colonel Francis Smith, had marched from Boston to Concord. 
When they entered Concord, they found the militia and minutemen 
assembled under the command of Colonel Barrett and Major Butterick. 
* * * And when the smoke began to rise from the village, where the 
British were burning cannon carriages and military stores, the Amer- 
icans resolved to force their way into the town. The English, beginning 
to pluck up some of the planks of the bridge, the Americans quickened 
their pace, and the British fired one or two shots up the river; then a 
single gun, the ball from which wounded Luther Blanchard and Jonas 
Brown, and then a volley. * * * The Americans fired and killed two men 
and wounded eight. The British retreated immediately toward the 
village * * * and as soon as they were rejoined by the plundering detach- 
ment, began that disastrous retreat to Boston, which was an omen to 
both parties of the event of the war." 

The Rhodora 
The rhodora is a low shrub, the rhododendron rhodora, a native of 



NOTES 497 

cold and wet wooded places from Pennsylvania northward, and often 
covers acres with its delicate rosy flowers, which appear before the 
leaves. Emerson loved nature as strongly as Wordsworth, and this short 
poem enunciates tersely the thought expressed by Keats, "A thing of 
beauty is a joy forever" ; and again, 

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty — that is all 
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know." 
Emerson expresses the idea no less fitly and eloquently in the lines, 
"Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, 
Then Beauty is its own excuse for being." 
Regular in metrical composition, simple and dignified in faith, full of 
appreciation of nature, "The Rhodora" is one of the few poetic gems 
from Emerson's pen. 

Days 

P. 142, 1. 1. The Hypocritic Days: In that they march by silently 
before one is aware that they have come and gone. Each day is a 
priceless opportunity : make high resolutions and be not turned aside by 
the small affairs of life — the "herbs and apples" — lest age greet thee with 
scorn because of the failure consequent on a low aim. 

P. 142, 1. 26. Dervishes: Wandering Mohammedan devotees, usually 
inspired by some religious purpose. The most famous are the dancing 
dervishes. 

P. 143, 1. 3. Pleached: Interwoven; a great variety of shrubs and 
flowers. 

P. 143, 1. 7. Fillet: A little band encircling the hair. 

Voluntaries 
These are a series of detached poems, the central idea of which is the 
performance of duty. Lowell says of Wordsworth : "At school he wrote 
some task verses on subjects imposed by the master, and also some 
voluntaries of his own" ; that is, some bits of verse composed for his own 
satisfaction. Stanza III of "Voluntaries" is modern in thought and 
contains a number of the best lines the Concord philosopher wrote. 

Self-Reliance 

The essay is made up of maxims, or aphoristic utterances. No central , 
thought, logically expressed, appears ; the core of the essay may be dis- 
covered in the following statements : "Trust thyself ; every heart vibrates 
to that iron string." — "All history resolves itself very easily into the 



498 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

biography of a few stout and earnest persons." — "If we live truly, we 
shall see truly." — "Insist on yourself; never imitate." — "Nothing can 
bring you peace but yourself." 

P. 145, 1. 15. Firmament: The vaulted roof of the sky; the heavens. 

P. 146, 1. 14. Muse: One of the nine sister goddesses of song and 
poetry; here, the inspiration of poetry. 

P. 146, 1. 22. Transcendent: Surpassing ordinary comprehension. 

P. 146, 1. 25. Chaos: The confused state of the universe at the begin- 
ning of time. 

P. 147, 1. 10. Titular: Existing in name only; nominal. 

P. 147, 1. 16. Bigot: An opinionated, intolerant believer in some 
creed or idea. 

P. 147, 1. 18. Barbadoes: An island of the British West Indies. 
Slavery was abolished there in 1834, and the experiment was watched 
with great interest by the world. 

P. 147, 1. 28. Lintel: Head-piece of a door or window. 

P. 151, 1. 5. Hobgoblin: A sprite, or, as here, a useless fear, an 
unreal cause of alarm. 

P. 151, 1. 12. Pythagoras: A Greek philosopher who lived about 
500^ B. C. 

P. 151, 1. 13. Socrates: A Greek philosopher, 469-398, B. C. 

P. 151, 1. 13, Luther: The leader of the Protestant Reformation, 
1483-1546. 

P. 151, 1. 13. Copernicus: A Pole who founded modern astronomy, 
1473-1543. 

P. 151, 1. 14. Galileo: A famous Italian physicist and astronomer, 
1564-1642. 

P. 151, 1. 14. Newton: A great English mathematician and scientist, 
1642-1727. 

P. 151, 1. 18. Himmaleh: The Himalaya mountains, lying along the 
northern border of India, the highest range in the world. 

P. 151, 1. 20. Acrostic: An "acrostic" is a composition in verse, in 
which the first letters of the lines of a stanza, or the first and last letters, 
or certain other letters, taken together, form a name or a motto. A 
"alexandrine" in prosody is a series of six iambic feet. A "palindrome" 
is a word, verse or sentence which reads the same from right to left as 
from left to right. This last is what the author means. 
. P. 152, 1. 18. Chatham: William Pitt, Earl of Chatham, a great Eng- 
lish statesman and orator of the eighteenth century. 

P. 152, 1. 19. Adams: John Adams, President of the United States 
from 1797 to 1801. 



NOTES 499 

P. 152, 1. 26. Gazetted: Published in an official report. 

P. 153, 1. 20. That popular fable: See the Introduction to Shake- 
speare's Taming of the Shrew, or The Arabian Nights' Entertainment, 
under "Abou Hassan, or The Sleeper Awakened." . 

P. 153, 1. 28. Mendicant: Beggar-like. 

P. 153, 1. 28. Sycophantic: Cringing, servile, unmanly. 

P. 153, 1. 33. Alfred: The great king of the West Saxons, 849-901. 

P. 153, 1. 33. Scanderbeg: An Albanian commander, 1403-1468. 

P. 153, 1. 33. Gustavus: Gustavus Adolphus, king of Sweden and a 
famous general. 

P. 154, 1. 13. Hieroglyphic: The writing-characters of the ancient 
Egyptians. 

P. 154, 1. 17. Aboriginal: Earliest; primitive. 

P. 157, 1. 24. South Sea: The name given the Pacific Ocean by its 
discoverer, Balboa, 1513. 

P. 159, t 22. Thor: One of the principal deities of the ancient Teu- 
tons, the god of thunder. Our word "Thursday" comes from the name 
of the god. 

P. 159, 1. 22. Woden: The "furious," the mighty warrior. The 
Anglo-Saxon name of the god Odin. Wednesday means "Woden's day." 

P. 160, 1. 20. Antinomianism: The tenets of those who maintain that 
Christians are freed from the moral law of the Old Testament by the 
new dispensation of grace as set forth in the gospels. 

P. 162, 1. 13. Allow themselves: In the sense of justify themselves. 

P. 162, 1. 29. Fletcher: John Fletcher, an Elizabethan playright, 1579- 
1625. 

P. 163, 1. 15. Zoroaster: An ancient Persian religious teacher. 

P. 163, 1. 18. Let not God speak: See Exodus 20, 19; Deuteronomy 
5, 25-27. 

P. 163, 1. 23. Locke: John, a very celebrated English philosopher, 
1632-1704. 

P. 163, 1. 24. Lavoisier: A French chemist, the discoverer of oxygen, 
1742-1794. 

P. 163, 1. 24. Hutton: James, a Scotch geologist, originator of the 
Plutonian or volcanic theory, 1726-1797. 

P. 163, 1. 24. Bentham: Jeremy, 1748-1832, an English philanthropist 
and philosopher. 

P. 163, 1. 24. Fourier: Jean Baptiste Joseph, 1768-1830, a celebrated 
French mathematician. 

P. 164, 1. 33. Thebes: An ancient Egyptian city. Also a city in 
ancient Greece. 



500 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

P. 164, 1. 33. Palmyra: An ancient Syrian city said to have been 
built by Solomon. 

P. 165, 1. 7. Vatican: A hill in Rome on the right bank of the Tiber, 
on which St. Peter's Cathedral and the Vatican palace of the Pope stand. 

P. 166, 1. 8. Phidias: A sculptor of ancient Greece, generally thought 
to be the greatest sculptor that has ever lived. 

P. 166, 1. 9. Dante: An Italian poet, author of The Divine Comedy, 
the most famous poem of the Middle Ages. 

P. 167, 1. 6. Solstice: The time at which the sun is at its greatest 
distance from the equator, either north or south ; hence, the winter and 
summer solstices. 

P. 167, 1. 14. Stoic: A school of philosophy founded by the Greek, 
Zeno, about 300, B. C. Its idea was that men should be free from 
passion, unmoved either by joy or fear; the Stoic, therefore, submitted 
uncomplainingly to the evils of life. 

P. 167, 1. 22. Phocion: A Greek statesman and general, 402-317, B. C 

P. 167, 1. 23, Anaxagoras: A Greek philosopher who lived about 500- 
428, B C 

P. 167, 1. 23. Diogenes: A Greek philosopher, famous for his eccen- 
tricities. 

P. 167, 1. 28. Hudson: Henry, or Hendrick, a noted English navi- 
gator in the Dutch service. See page 90. 

P. 167, 1. 28. Bering: A Danish explorer in the Russian service, 
1680-1741. 

P. 167, 1. 29. Parry: Sir William Edward, an English Arctic ex- 
plorer. 

P. 167, 1. 30. Franklin: Sir John, a celebrated Arctic explorer. 

P. 168, 1. 7. Las Casas: A mistake. The Marquis Las Cases, one of 
Napoleon's companions at St. Helena, is meant. 

P. 169, 1. 21. Fortune: The wheel was the symbol of Fortuna, god- 
dess of fortune. 



HENRY DAVID THOREAU 

Solitude 
Thoreau says : "My purpose in going to Walden Pond was not to 
live cheaply nor to live dearly there, but to transact some private business 
with the fewest obstacles." His real purpose was to observe nature and 
investigate her methods of self-sustaining providence. In the first chapter 
of Walden he remarks: "When I wrote the following pages, or rather 



NOTES 501 

the bulk of them, I lived alone in the woods, a mile from any neighbor, 
in a house which I built myself, on the shore of Walden Pond, in Concord, 
Massachusetts, and earned my living by my hands only. I lived there 
two years and two months." Walden was published in 1854. 

P. 172, 1. 2. Aeolian music: In classic mythology, Aeolus was the god 
of winds ; hence, Aeolian music, as used here, means the agreeable sound 
made by the wind blowing through the trees. 

P. 173, 1. 34. Beacon Hill: The hill in Boston on which the capitol 
stands. 

P. 174, 1. 1. Five Points: A region in New York city once famous as 
the resort of criminals. 

P. 174, 1. 15. Cambridge College: Harvard University. 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 

The Great Stone Face 

This allegory, or narrative with a moral, was first published in The 
Snow Image and Other Twice-Told Tales (1851) ; the first edition of 
Twice-Told Tales had come from the press in 1837. In "The Great Stone 
Face," Hawthorne tries to show that by constantly reaching out toward 
some ideal an individual ends by unconsciously becoming the incarna- 
tion of that ideal. The appearance accords with the inner thought ; one 
who lives nobly will in time exhibit that nobility in the outer man. 
Hawthorne may have had Emerson in mind when he wrote the story, 
though the date of publication of "The Great Stone Face" makes this 
unlikely. The scene is the Franconia Notch of the White Mountains of 
New Hampshire. The "Profile Rock," or "Old Man of the Mountain," 
is pointed out to visitors as the original of "The Great Stone Face." 

P. 176, 1. 27. Titan: One of a race of giants famed in Greek myth- 
ology. 

P. 179, 1. 33. Midas: In Greek mythology, Midas was granted by the 
god Dionysus the power of changing all things to gold by a touch. 
When Midas found that even the food he touched changed to gold and 
that he was in danger of starvation, he prayed that the gift might be 
taken away. His prayer was granted. 

P. 181, 1. 6. Harbingers: Forerunners; persons or things which pre- 
cede. 

P. 182, 1. 3. Beggar Woman: The incident here is similar to the 
theme of Lowell's The Vision of Sir Launfal: "He gives nothing but 
worthless gold who gives from a sense of duty." 



502 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

P. 187, 1. 14. Not a day passed: The minor key to the story. 

P. 188, 1. 26. Popedom: When a cardinal is chosen by the college, or 
council, of cardinals to be the supreme head of the Roman Catholic 
church, the man so elected takes a name by which he is henceforth known. 
He may become Leo XIII, or Innocent X, or Benedict XV, following, of 
course, the order of succession in the name he selects. 

P. 193, 1. 9. Spawned: Brought forth, generated; relating to fishes, 
oysters, etc. 

P. 195, 1. 25. Corresponded with my thought: Another minor key to 
the narrative. 

P. 197, 1. 10. The poet shouted: The discovery of Ernest's likeness to 
"The Great Stone Face," his approximation to the ideal, is fittingly made 
by a poet; It is in the nature of things that the poet sees and appreciates 
beauty of character in others, though his own character is so frequently 
marred by weakness and sin. Consider Browning's "Andrea Del Sarto." 
Note the tone of humility with which the story closes. 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 

A Psalm of Life 
The psalmist of the sub-title is the poet himself in a despondent mood, 
with which his normal, cheerful self is at struggle. Longfellow said of 
the poem : "I kept it sometime in manuscript, unwilling to show it to 
anyone, it being a voice from my inmost heart, at a time when I was 
rallying from depression." Observe that the mood becomes triumphant, 
"with a heart for any fate." Before it was published in the Knicker- 
bocker Magazine (1838), it was read by the poet to his college class at 
the close of a lecture on Goethe. See Goethe's Faust, I, 458-59: 

"Ach Gott ! die Kunst ist lang, 
Und Kurz is unser Leben." 

[O God! art is long, and short is our life.] 

Prof. C. Alphonso Smith, in What Can Literature Do for Me? relates 
that Longfellow was once driving in a closed carriage near Newcastle, 
England, when the carriage was suddenly halted and the door violently 
opened. Looking out, the poet saw that he was surrounded by a group 
of coal-begrimed miners. His first thought was that he was about to be 
robbed. "Is this Mr. Longfellow?" asked one of the men. "It is," was 
the reply. "Well, sir, some of us heard that you were to pass here 






NOTES 503 

about this time and we got permission to come up out of the mine and 
see you. We just want to shake your hand and say, 'God bless the man 
that wrote The Psalm of Life.' " 

The Wreck of the Hesperus 

This is one of the best of Longfellow's ballads. Note the regular 
old-ballad meter, and the accent on the last syllable of "daughter" and 
"sailor" at the end of lines. 

Of the origin of this ballad, Longfellow wrote in his Journal (Dec. 
17, 1839) : "News of shipwrecks horrible on the coast. Twenty bodies 
washed ashore near Gloucester, one lashed to a piece of the wreck. 
There is a reef called Norman's Woe where many of these took place; 
among others the schooner Hesperus. * * * I must write a ballad on 
this." 

The Village Blacksmith 

The poem was suggested by a blacksmith's shop under a horse-chest- 
nut tree near Longfellow's house. The tree was cut down in 1876; and 
later a chair made from the timber was presented the poet by the children 
of Cambridge. In his diary (Oct. 5, 1839), Longfellow jots down: 
"Wrote a new 'Psalm of Life.' It is 'The Village Blacksmith.' " About 
a year later he writes his father: "My pen has not been very prolific 
of late ; only a little poetry has trickled from it. There will be a kind 
of ballad on a blacksmith in the next Knickerbocker [November, 1840], 
which you may consider, if you please, as a song in praise of your 
ancestor at Newbury" (the first Stephen Longfellow). 

Excelsior 

The original manuscript of "Excelsior" is preserved in the library of 
Harvard University. The suggestion of the poem came to the poet from 
a scrap of newspaper, a part of the heading of one of the New York 
journals, bearing the seal of the State — a shield, with a rising sun, and 
the motto Excelsior. 

Poe said that "Excelsior" depicted "the earnest upward striving of 
the soul— an impulse not to be subdued in death." Longfellow himself, 
in a letter to C. K. Tuckerman, explained the meaning of his poem as 
follows: "I have had the pleasure of receiving your note in regard to 
the poem 'Excelsior,' and very willingly give you my intention in writing 
it. This was no more than to display, in a series of pictures, the life 
of a man of genius, resisting all temptations, laying aside all fears, heed- 
less of all warnings, and pressing right on to accomplish his purpose. 



504 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

His motto is Excelsior, 'higher.' He passes through the Alpine village — 
through the rough, cold paths of the world — where the peasants cannot 
understand him, and where the watchword is an 'unknown tongue.' He 
disregards the happiness of domestic peace and sees the glaciers— his 
fate — before him. He disregards the warning of the old man's wisdom 
and the fascinations of woman's love. He answers to all, 'Higher yet' 
The monks of Saint Bernard are the representatives of religious forms 
and ceremonies, and with their oft-repeated prayer mingles the sound of 
his voice, telling them there is something higher than forms and cere- 
monies. Filled with these aspirations, he perishes, without having 
reached the perfection he longed for; [Compare Browning's — 
"A man's reach should exceed his grasp, 
Or what's a heaven for"] 
and the voice heard in the air is the promise of immortality and progress 
ever upward." The student should read, in connection with "Excelsior," 
Poe's "Eldorado," Emerson's "Forerunners," Lowell's "L'Envoi," and 
Whittier's "The Vanishers." 

Paul Revere's Ride 
This story is told by the landlord, and the narrative was first pub- 
lished in The Atlantic Monthly, January, 1861. Paul Revere's own 
account of the ride is as follows : "In the fall of 1774, and the winter 
of 1775, I was one of upwards of thirty, chiefly mechanics, who formed 
ourselves into a committee for the purpose of watching the movements 
of the British soldiers, and gaining every intelligence of the movements 
of the Tories. * * * On Tuesday evening, the 18th, it was observed that 
a number of soldiers were marching toward the bottom of the Common. 
* * * I agreed with a Colonel Conant and some other gentlemen that 
if the British went out by water, we would show two lanthorns in the 
North Church steeple, and if by land, one, as a signal. * * * I left Dr. 
Warren, called upon a friend, and desired him to make the signals. I 
then went home, took my boots and surtout, went to the northern part of 
the town, where I had kept a boat. Two friends .rowed me across 
Charles river, a little to the eastward of where the Somerset man-of-war 
lay. * * * When I got into town, I met Colonel Conant and several 
others ; they said they had seen our signals. I told them what was 
acting, and went to get me a horse; it was then about eleven o'clock, 
and very pleasant. * * * In Medford I awaked the captain of the minute- 
men ; and after that I alarmed almost every house till I got to Lexing- 
ton." — Massachusetts Historical Society's Collections, First Series, Vol. 
V, 106. 



NOTES 505 

The Song of Hiawatha 
Cantos XVII and XX 

"This Indian Edda — if I may call it, (Edda meaning Norse legend or 
saga), is founded on a tradition prevalent among the North American 
Indians, of a personage of miraculous birth who was sent among them 
to clear their rivers, forests, and fishing grounds, and to teach them the 
arts of peace. He was known among different tribes by the several 
names of Michabou, Chiabo, Manabozo, Tarenyawagon, and Hiawatha. 
Mr. Schoolcraft gives an account of him in his Algic Researches, Vol. I, 
134; and in his History, Conditions, and Prospects of the Indian Tribes 
of the United States, Part III, 314, may be found the Iroquois poem of 
the tradition, derived from the verbal narrations of an Onondaga chief. 

"Into this old tradition I have woven other curious Indian legends, 
drawn chiefly from the various and valuable writings of Mr. School- 
craft. * * * 

"The scene of the poem is among the Ojibways on the southern shore 
of Lake Superior, in the region between the Pictured Rocks and the 
Grand Sable." (Note in the 1855 edition.) 

The "pictured rocks" are a series of sandstone cliffs, three hundred 
feet in height, stretching for five miles along the shore of Lake Superior 
in Alger county, Michigan. The "grand sable" is the name given to 
the great sand-dunes of Lake Superior. These dunes, lining the lake 
shore, resemble a vast sand-bank and are more than three hundred and 
fifty feet high. There is no trace of vegetation on them. 

Longfellow began writing Hiawatha on June 25, 1854, and finished it 
late in March, 1855. It was published the following November. The 
poet, not being sure of his art, tested the narrative by reading it to his 
friends, who differed in their verdicts — some were favorable and others 
unfavorable. Longfellow himself became more and more doubtful of 
the poem's worth as the date of publication drew near. "Proof sheets 
of Hiawatha?' he wrote in June, 1855. "I am growing idiotic about the 
song, and no longer know whether it is good or bad." His doubts 
were speedily laid at rest by the immediate and great success of 
Hiawatha, which is one of the most popular American poems ever pub- 
lished. 

P. 217, 1. 10. Brant: A wild goose. 

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 

The Vision of Sir Launfal 
"According to the mythology of the Romancers, the San Greal, or 



506 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Holy Grail, was the cup out of which Jesus Christ partook of the Last 
Supper with his disciples. It was brought to England by Joseph of 
Arimathea, and remained there, an object of pilgrimage and adoration, 
for many years, in the keeping of his lineal descendants. It was incum- 
bent upon those who had charge of it to be chaste in thought, word and 
deed ; but one of the keepers having broken this condition, the Holy 
Grail disappeared. From that time it was a favorite enterprise of the 
knights of Arthur's court to go in search of it. Sir Galahad was at 
last successful in finding it, as may be read in the seventeenth book of 
the Romance of King Arthur (Malory's Morte a" Arthur). * * * 

"The plot (if I may give that name to anything so slight) of the 
following poem is my own, and, to serve its purposes, I have enlarged 
the circle of competition in search of the miraculous cup in such a 
manner as to include not only other persons than the heroes of the 
Round Table, but also a period of time subsequent to the date of King 
Arthur's reign." — Lowell. 

Compare Lowell's poem with Tennyson's treatment of the same theme, 
as in the following lines : 

The cup, the cup itself, from which Our Lord 
Drank at the last sad supper with His own. 
This, from the blessed land of Aromat — 
After the day of darkness, when the dead 
Went wandering o'er Moriah — the good saint 
Arimathean Joseph, journeying brought 
To Glastonbury, where the winter thorn 
Blossoms at Christmas, mindful of Our Lord. 
And there awhile it bode ; and if a man 
Could touch or see it, he was heal'd at once, 
By faith, of all his ills. But then the times 
Grew to such evil that the holy cup 
Was caught away to Heaven, and disappear'd. 

— The Holy Grail. 

In the first prelude to Sir Launfal, the musing organist, as in Brown- 
ing's "Abt Vogler," lets his hands stray over the keys until the theme of 
his lay comes to mind. The prelude admirably describes the joys of late 
spring or early summer and the inspiration to be found in nature, and 
calls attention from private and selfish aims to the higher purposes 
of life. 

P. 228, 1. 24. Auroral: Aurora was the goddess of the dawn. 



NOTES 507 

P. 229, 1. 1. Our infancy: A reference to the famous line, 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy. 

—Wordsworth, "Intimations of Immortality." 
P. 229, 1. 4. Sinai: The mountain top whereon God gave the tables 
of the law to Moses. 

P. 229, 1. 9. The druid wood: To the druids the oak was the symbol 
of God. The druids were the priests of the primitive Celtic religion. 
See the opening line of Evangeline. 

P. 229, 1. 10. Benedicite: Benedicite omnia opera Domini. "Bless 
the Lord, all ye works of the Lord." Psalm, 145, 10. A benedic- 
tion, a blessing. 

P. 229, 1. 15. Shrives: The hearing of a confession by a priest and 
the grant of absolution for sins is called shriving. 

P. 229, 1. 19. Cap and bells: A cap bearing a set of small bells was 
a part of the equipment of a mediaeval fool, or jester. 

P. 229, 1. 25. A day in June: Lowell's love of the month of June is 
shown in many places in his works. 

June ! Dear June ! Now God be praised for June ! 

—"Under the Willows." 
Students should remember that spring comes late in New England. In 
the South, May is the month of "rare" and "perfect" days. 

P. 230, 1. 7. Chalice: Cup. It is suggestive of the theme of the 
poem. 

P. 230, 1. 32. Maize: Indian corn. 

P. 231, 1. 21. Sir Launfal: The name is often spelled Lanva'l. Sir 
Launfal is the leading character in a poem written by Thomas Chestre, 
who lived in the reign of Henry II. In Lowell's poem he represents no 
especial knight, but is a type of the heroes who go forth in search of 
adventure and in the hope of redressing wrong. 

P. 231, 1. 30. Rushes: Marsh-growing plants were the usual covering 
for a floor of a castle in mediaeval days. 

P. 232, 1. 12. North Countree: Literally, the north of England. Low- 
ell probably means, however, an indefinite fairyland. 

P. 232, 1. 26. Maiden Knight: An untried knight; one unpracticed in 
fighting. 

P. 233, 1. 12. Pitcher-plant: An American plant with a cup-like ap- 
pendage. 

P. 233, 1. 24. Gold in scorn: The central idea of the poem. A gift 
made wholly from a sense of duty and without love or sympathy has 
no value whatever. As in Coleridge's "The Ancient Mariner," the punish- 
ment for the wanton killing of an albatross is the theme about which 



508 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

the story revolves, so in this poem by Lowell the central idea is that of 
expiation for a thoughtless and sinful act. See Mark, 12, 42. 

P. 234, 1. 12. Second Prelude: Note the transformation from youth 
to old age, from the springtime of life to the winter of whitened locks. 
The mood of the poem has entirely changed. 

P. 234, 1. 14. Wold: Upland; a sloping field. 

P. 234, 1. 22. Groined: A groin in architecture is the intersection of 
two arched vaults. 

P. 234, 1. 23. Crystal spars: Ice beams used for timber. 

P. 234, 1. 28. Crypt: An arched or vaulted passage; a subterranean 
chapel of Gothic churches. 

P. 234, 1. 31. Fretwork: Interlaced ornamental work. 

P. 235, 1. 2. Arabesques: Fantastic carved patterns. 

P. 235, 1. 19. Corbel: A piece of stone, wood or iron projecting from 
the vertical face of a wall to support some object. "The corbells were 
grotesque and grim." — Scott, The Lay of the Last Minstrel. 

P. 235, 1. 22. The Yule-log: A huge log burned at Christmas. The 
custom was a survival of an old heathen festival in honor of the god 
Thor. 

P. 236, 1. 7. Seneschal: A steward, a majordomo. 

P. 236, 1. 29. Surcoat: A loose outergarment worn over armor. 

P. 239, 1. 17. Sir Launfal awoke: This is the end of the vision. The 
knight awakes to find that all his adventures have been portrayed in a 
dream as a lesson to his proud spirit. 

P. 239, 1. 17. Swotind: A swoon. 

The Present Crisis 

"The Present Crisis was written when the annexation of Texas was 
being agitated. Believing that this would mean the extension of slavery, 
he voiced his opposition in the ringing lines of this well-known poem. 
The application, however, is far more general, and certain stanzas con- 
tinue to be quoted in reference to any crisis in which error seems for 
the time about to triumph over truth. Perhaps no other poem of Lowell 
has so often served public speakers in driving home a great moral 
lesson." — Metcalf, American Literature, 210. 

P. 242, 1. 3. Contumelious: Exhibiting disdain or contempt. 

P. 242, 1. 29. Iconoclasts: Image-breakers; in a modern sense, the 
destroyers of conventional doctrines or ideas. 

The Courtin' 
"The only attempt I had ever made at anything like a pastoral (if 



NOTES 509 

that may be called an attempt which was the result almost of pure 
accident) was in 'The Courtin'.' While the introduction to the First 
Series [of Biglow Papers] was going through the press, I received word 
from the printer that there was a blank page left which must be filled. 
I sat down at once and improvised another fictitious 'notice of the press/ 
in which, because verse would fill up more cheaply than prose, I inserted 
an extract from a supposed ballad of Mr. Biglow. I kept no copy of it, 
and the printer, as directed, cut it off when the gap was filled."— Intro- 
duction to The Biglow Papers, Second Series, 1866 edition. 

To one who can appreciate New England dialect this "back-kitchen 
pastoral" makes a strong appeal. It is a true lyric straight from the 
heart of the country-side. 

P. 244, 1 9. Crook-necks: Squashes. 

P. 244, 1. 11. Queen's-arm: Musket. 

P. 245, 1. 22. Sekle: The sequel, the outcome. 

P. 247, 1. 3. They was cried: The betrothal was announced in church, 
in order to allow any who knew of a lawful impediment to the marriage 
to have an opportunity of communicating it to the proper authorities. 

L'Envoi: To the Muse 

This poem, addressed by the poet to his Muse, is one of high aim, 
noble purpose, and steadfast courage. Only the first twenty-four lines 
are given. 

Compare Emerson's "Forerunners," Whittier's "The Vanishers," Long- 
fellow's "Excelsior," and Poe's "Eldorado"— all poems of personal aspira- 
tion—and, also, Tennyson's "Merlin and the Gleam." 

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 

Skipper Ireson's Ride 

Whittier said that the poem was based on a fragment of an old rhyme 
which was recited by a Marblehead schoolmate and that the narrative 
was mainly imaginary. Lowell suggested the refrain. 

P. 248, 1. 18. Apuleius's Golden Ass: A romance by Apuleius in which 
the central figure is turned by witchcraft into an ass. 

P. 248, 1. 19. Calendar: See The Arabian Nights' Entertainment,— 
"The Story of the Third Royal Mendicant." 

P. 248, 1. 21. Al-Borak: The animal with the face of a man, the 
wings of an eagle, and a human voice, brought by the angel Gabriel to 
convey Mahomet, the prophet of Islam, to the seventh heaven. 



510 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

P. 249, 1. 22. The Maenads: The wild, terrible priestesses of the god 
Bacchus. 

P. 249, 1. 27. Chaleur Bay: An inlet of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. 

The Barefoot Boy 

This poem is full of personal reminiscences and New England local 
color. 

P. 253, 1. 31. Hesperides: In Greek mythology, the Hesperides were 
nymphs, the daughters of Hesperus, who guarded the golden apples in 
a garden in the Island of the Blest at the western extremity of the 
world. 

P. 254, 1. 32. Moil: Toil, drudgery. 

In School Days 

A little poem redolent of the atmosphere of the village school. The 
outside, plain and surrounded by sumach bushes and blackberry vines ; 
the inside, with the master's deep-scarred desk, the battered seats, the 
golden-haired girl who hated to "cut a feller down because she loved 
him" — these well-chosen touches make a charming picture of school-life 
in the early nineteenth century. 

My Playmate 
The poem was first published in The Atlantic Monthly (1860). It is 
a lyric of lament, of pensiveness for the playmate of other days who is 
now far distant. There is a mingling of description and sentiment, so 
skillfully done that one is prone to find something personal in the poem. 
"The moaning of the sea of change" is almost Tennysonian in manner. 
Indeed, Tennyson called "My Playmate" a perfect poem. 

Snow-Bound 

The Whittier homestead at Haverhill is now the property of the 
Whittier Memorial Association. Its rooms have been restored as nearly 
as possible to the condition described in "Snow-Bound." The characters 
in the poem are those who lived in the home, — the father, the mother, 
a brother Matthew, the sisters Mary and Elizabeth, and an uncle and an 
aunt, both unmarried. In addition, there were the schoolmaster, who 
boarded at the Whittiers', and an occasional visitor, Miss Harriet 
Livermore. 

The poem should be compared with Burns's "Tarn O'Shanter" and 
Goldsmith's "The Deserted Village." 

P. 259, 1. 25. Stanchion: An upright post or bar. 



NOTES 511 

P. 260, 1. 15. Pellicle: A thin film. 

P. 261, 1. 2. Pisa's leaning miracle; The leaning tower at Pisa, Italy, 
which is thirteen feet out of the perpendicular in a height of 179 feet. 

P. 261, 1. 7. Buskins: Half-boots. 

P. 261, 1. 14. Aladdin: The owner of the magical lamp in the story 
in The Arabian Nights' Entertainment. 

P. 261, 1. 27. Amun: An Egyptian god, often represented by the figure 
of a ram. 

P. 263, 1. 8. Trammels: Iron hooks on which kettles were hung. 

P. 263, 1. 28. Clean-winged: Swept clean by a turkey-wing brush. 

P. 264, 1. 23. The Chief of Gambia: A quotation from "The African 
Chief," a poem by Mrs Sarah Wentworth Morton. 

P. 264, 1. 33. Memphremagog: A lake on the border of Vermont and 
Canada. 

P. 265, 1. 1. Samp: Boiled maize. 

P. 265, 1 4. St. Francois: The St. Francois river is an outlet of Lake 
Memphremagog, running into the St. Lawrence. 

P. 265, 1. 6. Norman: Many French Canadians are the descendants 
of settlers from Normandy. 

P. 265, 1. 12. Salisbury: At the mouth of the Merrimac river. 

P. 265, 1. 17. Boar's Head: On the seacoast south of Portsmouth, 
N. H. 

P. 265, 1. 18. Isle of Shoals: Opposite the mouth of the Piscataqua 
river. 

P. 266, 1. 1. Cocheco: The modern Dover, N. H. Whittier's mother 
came from southern New Hampshire, and she had heard these Indian 
tales in childhood. 

P. 266, 1. 16. Piscataqua: A river marking the boundary between 
New Hampshire and Maine. It is formed by the junction of the Salmon 
and the Cocheco and flows into the ocean three miles south of Ports- 
mouth. 

P. 266, 1. 28. Sewel's Ancient Tome: The History of the Rise, In- 
crease, and Progress of the Christian People Called Quakers (1722). 

P. 266, 1. 31. Chalkley's Journal: Another Quaker work. 

P. 267, 1. 9. Cunning-warded: A ward is the notch by which a key 
passes the projection of the lock. The term means well-fitted to turn 
a lock, to open. 

P. 267, 1. 14. Apollonius: A Greek philosopher and wonder-worker 
of the first century, A. D., reputed to know all languages without having 
undergone the labor of studying them. 



512 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

P. 267, 1. 16. Hermes: The Egyptian god of wisdom, Thoth, was 
called Hermes by the Greeks. 

P. 267, 1. 26. White of Selborne: Gilbert White, 1720-1793, wrote 
The Natural History of Selborne, which became a classic. Selborne is 
in Surrey county, England. 

P. 271, 1. 2. The Master: George Haskell. 

P. 272, 1. 5. Pindus-born: Pindus is the mountain range between 
Epirus and Thessaly. The Araxes river is meant. 

P. 272, 1. 10. Another guest: Miss Harriet Livermore, who was a 
Second Adventist and spent much of her time in Palestine and Arabia 
awaiting the second coming of Christ. 

P, 272, 1. 23. Pard-like: Pard is the poetic word for panther. 

P. 273, 1. 3. Petruchio's Kate: Katherine in Shakespeare's The 
Taming of the Shrew. 

P. 273, 1. 4. Siena's Saint: St. Catherine of Siena, Italy, had frequent 
visions. 

P. 273, 1. 22. Queen of Lebanon: Lady Hester Stanhope, who awaited 
Christ's coming on Mount Lebanon. 

P. 276, 1. 31. Ellwood: Thomas Ellwood, a Quaker, the friend of 
Milton. 

P. 277, 1. 10. Daft McGregor: A Scotch adventurer in Central and 
South America. 

P. 277, 1. 12. Taygetus: A mountain range in Southern Greece. 

P. 277, 1. 13. Ypsilanti: Demetrios Ypsilanti won a great victory over 
the Turks in 1822. The Mainotes were a tribe living in the Pelopon- 
nesus, or Morea, as the Greek peninsula is now called. 

P. 278, 1. 2. Palimpsest: A parchment used two or more times; the 
earlier writing has been erased. 

P. 278, 1. 11. Amaranths: An imaginary plant which never fades. 

P. 278, 1. 22. Aloe: The American aloe, or century plant, supposedly 
flowers once in a century; it produces a single gigantic bloom and then 
dies. 

P. 278, 1. 24. Truce of God: In the Middle Ages, a truce or armistice 
was frequently proclaimed, in order that an important festival or feast 
of the church might be celebrated during the suspension of hostilities. 
Hence the expression, "truce of God." 

P. 278, 1. 30. Flemish: Flemish and Dutch painters. were fond of pic- 
turing cottage scenes. 



NOTES 513 

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 

Old Ironsides 
This poem was first published in The Boston Daily Advertiser, 
September 16, 1830. It was one of Holmes's earliest attempts ; he 
scribbled it with a pencil on a scrap of paper upon reading in the 
Advertiser of September 14 that "the Secretary of the Navy has recom- 
mended to the board of Navy Commissioners to dispose of the frigate 
Constitution" The ship was then about thirty-three years old, having 
been built in Boston in 1798 ; it had served against the pirates in the 
Mediterranean in the War with Tripoli (1801-05), and in the War of 
1812, in which it won a brilliant victory over the British frigate, 
Guerriere. Thanks to Holmes's poem, the old ship was preserved as a 
relic of the American navy, and it may still be seen at the Navy- Yard 
near. Boston. 

The Last Leaf 

Holmes stated that this poem was suggested by a figure often seen on 
the streets of Boston in the early thirties, one Major Thomas Melville, 
who was reputed to have taken part in the Boston Tea-Party of 1774. 
In old age he still wore the colonial costume, as described in the poem. 

The Wonderful One-Hoss Shay 

The poem was first published in The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table, 
No. XI {The Atlantic Monthly, September, 1858). When Holmes went 
to Oxford University to receive an honorary degree, the undergraduates 
tried to embarrass him as he entered the Sheldonian Theater by chanting, 
"Did he come in the one-hoss shay, the wonderful one-hoss shay?" 

P. 282, 1. 7. Lisbon: The earthquake at Lisbon, Portugal, in 1755. 
was one of the most terrible in history. Thousands of people perished. 

P. 282, 1. 9. Braddock's army: Braddock, an English general, was 
defeated by the French and Indians near the site of Pittsburg, Penn. 

The Chambered Nautilus 
This beautiful poem was "suggested by looking at a section of one 
of those chambered shells to which is given the name of Pearly Nautilus. 
The section will show you the series of enlarging compartments succes- 
sively dwelt in by the animal that inhabits the shell, which is built in a 
widening spiral." — The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table. 

P.-286; h 19. Triton: A sea-god. 

■ - ■ 



514 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table 

"The famous 'Breakfast Table' series consists of three volumes — 
The Autocrat, The Professor (1859), and The Poet (1872). The Auto- 
crat of the Breakfast Table (1857) is a loose personal essay-narrative on 
the sayings and doings at an imaginary boarding-house breakfast table 
in Boston. The work is mostly a conversational monologue by the 
Autocrat himself, with just enough talk by the boarders to give an air 
of naturalness to the scene." — Metcalf, American Literature, 224. 

The selection is from Chapter Six of The Autocrat of the Breakfast 
Table. 

P. 288, 1. 20. Vieuxtemps: Henri, 1830-1881, a celebrated Belgian 
composer and violinist. 

P. 288, 1. 21. Thalberg: Sigismund, a Swiss pianist and composer. 

P. 290, 1. 3. Auto da fe: Literally, "an act of faith"— the public execu- 
tion of a heretic who had been tried before the court of the Spanish 
Inquisition. The sentence against the accused was formally read, and 
the proceeding was regarded as "an act of faith," that is, as necessary 
for the good of the church. 

P. 291, 1. 16. Coleridge: Samuel Taylor, 1772-1834, an English poet, 
philosopher and literary critic. The Ancient Mariner is his best-known 
work. 

P. 291, 1. 16. Schlegel: The Schlegel brothers, William, 1767-1845, and 
Frederick, 1772-1829, were noted German poets and philosophers. 

A SHEAF OF FAMOUS LYRICS 
The Star-Spangled Banner 
In September, 1814, when the British were about to attack Baltimore, 
Key sought the commander of the force in order to secure the release 
of a friend held as a prisoner. He was detained aboard the British 
fleet for safe-keeping while the attack was in progress. The bombard- 
ment lasted through the night ; Key listened to the thunder of the guns, 
wondering whether Fort McHenry could hold out under the hot fire. 
At dawn the next morning he saw, with pride and thankfulness, the 
Stars and Stripes still flying above the fort, and he wrote the famous 
stanzas. They were set to the tune of "Anacreon in Heaven," and the 
poem has become America's national anthem. 

My Life Is Like the Summer Rose 
The author of this poem, Richard Henry Wilde, was a New Orleans 
lawyer. It was written in 1815. 



NOTES SIS 

A Health 
This poem was written (1825) in honor of Mrs. Rebecca Sommer- 
ville of Baltimore, where Pinkney lived. 

Resignation, or Days of My Youth 
St. George Tucker was a distinguished Virginia jurist. 

Florence Vane 
Philip Pendleton Cooke was an eminent Virginia lawyer. The poem 
was first published in the Gentlemen's Magazine (1847). 

The Bivouac of the Dead 

This poem was written in 1847 on the occasion of the bringing home 
of the remains of the Kentucky soldiers who fell in the Mexican War 
and their burial in Frankfort Cemetery. O'Hara was a native of 
Kentucky. 

P. 298, 1. 28. Serried Foe: Referring to Santa Anna's men in compact 
ranks. 

P. 299, I. 7. Old Chieftain: General Zachary Taylor. 

P. 299, 1. 18. Angostura: A pass near Buena Vista. 

P. 299, 1. 25. Dark and Bloody Ground: Kentucky. The name is sup- 
posed to commemorate the fierce fights among the early Indian tribes 
which took place in this region. 

Maryland, My Maryland 

The poem was written in 1861, when the Massachusettts troops on their 
way south were fired upon in the streets of Baltimore. Randall, who 
was then living in New Orleans, read the newspaper report, and at once 
composed this clarion call to his native State to join in the movement 
of secession. It was first published in the New Orleans Delta, April 
26, 1861. 

P. 301, 1. 17. Carroll: Charles Carroll, of Carrollton, was one of the 
Maryland signers of the Declaration of Independence. 

P. 301, 1. 18. Howard: John Eager Howard was a Maryland soldier 
in the Revolutionary War. 

P. 301, 1. 25. Ringgold, Watson, et al.: All fought in the Mexican 
War. 

P. 302, 1. 25. Vandal: The Vandals, a tribe of northern Europe noted 
for their .ravages in war. 

Little Giffen of Tennessee 
This poem is the true story of a wounded boy in the Confederate 



516 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

army whom Francis Orray Ticknor and his wife nursed back to health, 
Dr. Ticknor lived near Columbus, Ga. 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 
To Helen 
These lines were addressed to Mrs. Jane Stith Standard of Rich- 
mond. 

P. 304, 1. 21. Nicean barks: It is not likely that Poe meant any defi- 
nite place by "Nicean." Milton's "Nyseian isle" (Paradise Lost, IV, 
275) has been suggested as the original of Poe's phrase, the spelling 
being changed. Nysa was off the coast of Lybia ; to this place, accord- 
ing to legend, Bacchus was conveyed in his youth. Some think that 
"Nicean" is a substitution for "Phaeacian," and that the "wanderer" 
was Ulysses. 

P. 305, 1. 2. Hyacinth hair: Hyacinth, or hyacinthine, is a Greek 
word frequently used in reference to hair. Thus in Pope's Odyssey we 
find, "His hyacinthine locks." The ancients had a gem and a flower 
named hyacinth, and the term as applied to hair probably means beautiful 
or bright. 

P. 305, 1. 3. Naiad: A water-nymph. 

P. 305, 11. 4-5. Glory that was Greece, etc.: Two of the most famous 
lines in American verse. 

P. 305, 1. 9. Psyche: A beautiful woman; a deified soul. 

Israfel 

Israfel is one of the four angels standing highest in God's favor, 
according to the account given by Sale, the translator of the Koran, 
the Mohammedan Bible. 

P. 305, 1. 12. Whose heart-strings are a lute: "And the angel Israfel, 
whose heart-strings are a lute and who has the sweetest voice of all 
God's creatures."— Poe's note in the version of 1845. The quotation 
is from Sale's "Preliminary Discourse to the Koran/' but Poe inserted 
the clause, "whose heart-strings are a lute." 

P. 305, 1. 22. Levin: Lightning. . 

P. 305, 1. 23. Pleiads: A group of seven stars, one of which is now 
lost; hence, the Lost Pleiad. In mythology the Pleiads were the daugh- 
ters of Atlas and Pleione. 

P. 306, 1 7. Houri: Beautiful damsels promised to the faithful 
Moslems as companions in Paradise. 



NOTES 517 

The Raven 

"The Raven" was fiist published in The Evening Mirror, 1845. One 
should read Poe's "Philosophy of Composition" for his own account of 
the method used in writing the poem. 

P. 307, 1. 13. Lenore: A favorite name with Poe. See the poem so 
entitled. 

P. 308, 1. 23. Pallas: Goddess of wisdom. The name was chosen, 
says Poe, "first, as most in keeping with the scholarship of the lover; 
and, secondly, for the sonorousness of the word, Pallas, itself." 

P. 308, 1. 27. Shorn and shaven: The shaven head of a priest, a sign 
of cowardice, according to the poet. 

P. 308, 1. 31. Plutonian: The land of night; Pluto was the ruler of 
the dead in the dark world beneath the earth. 

P. 310, 1. 7. Seraphim: Plural form of seraph, one order of angels. 

P. 310, 1. 10. Nepenthe: A magic drink producing oblivion, freedom 
from pain and sorrow. 

Eldorado 

"Eldorado" was published on April 21, 1849, and thus is one of Poe's 
last poems. El Dorado (the gilded) was the king of a fabulous city of 
great wealth, which was supposed, during the sixteenth century, to exist 
somewhere in the northern part of South America. The term, as now 
used, means the land of golden illusion. The poem represents the 
"quest of the ideal." 

P. 311, 1. 12. Bedight: Bedecked, clothed. 

P. 312, 1. 3. Valley of the Shadow: See Psalm, 23, "Valley of the 
Shadow." 

P. 312. 1. 4. Ride, boldly: Professor C. Alphonso Smith, in his book, 
What Can Literature Do for Me? commends highly this sentiment of 
death-defying endeavor. 

Annabel Lee 

This lyric of sheer melody, published two days after Poe's death, 
October 9, 1849, was certainly writen with his beloved wife, Virginia, 
in mind. The name Annabel Lee was chosen solely for euphony; in 
the poem there is the perfect mingling of sound and sense. 

P. 313, 1. 8. Angels in heaven: See Romans, 8, 38-39. 

The Cask of Amontillado 

The swiftness and sureness with which this story hurries to its culmi- 
nating sense of horror are characteristic qualities of Poe as a short- 
story writer. He always strives for "totality of effect." 



518 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

P. 314, 1. 20. Motley: The garb of a fool or jester; a many-colored 
costume. 

P. 314, 1. 26. Amontillado: A fine, light-colored Spanish sherry. Pro- 
nounced A mon ti ya' do. 

P. 314, 1. 26. Pipe: A wine measure, usually 126 gallons. 

P. 315, 1. 17. Niter: Saltpeter; nitrate of potash. 

P. 315, 1. 22. Roquelaire: A cloak reaching about to the knees. 

P. 315, 1. 23. Palazzo: Italian palace, or large mansion. 

P. 315, 1. 30. Flambeaux: Torches made of thick wicks covered with 
wax. 

P. 316, 1. 25. Medoc: A wine made in a district of the department 
of Gironde, France. 

P. 317, 1. 7. Nemo me, etc.: "No one wounds me without punishment." 

P. 321, 1. 4. In pace, etc.: "May he rest in peace." 

The Purloined Letter 

This brilliant tale shows Poe's power of analysis at its best and is a 
forerunner of the modern detective story. The French writer, Gaboriau, 
and the English writer, A. Conan Doyle, are imitators of Poe. 

P. 321, 1. 8. Au troisieme: Literally, on the third floor, but the fourth 
floor by the regular method of counting floors. 

P. 321, 1. 15. Rue Morgue: A street in Paris used by Poe as the scene 
of his story, "The Murders of the Rue Morgue." 

P. 325, 1. 5. Hotel: The French often use the word in reference to a 
large private mansion. 

P. 325, 1. 10. Au fait: Expert, familiar, informed. 

P. 329, 1. 33. Abernethy: A distinguished English surgeon of eccen- 
tric manners. 

P. 330, 1. 25. Escritoire: Writing-desk, secretary. 

P. 331, 1. 16. Procrustean bed: In Greek mythology, Procrustes was 
a robber who stretched or cut off his captives' limbs to make the victims 
conform to a bed on which he laid them. 

P. 332, 1. 22. Rochefoucauld: Francis de la, a noted French moralist. 

P. 332, 1. 22. La Bougive: Probably a mistake for La Bruyere, a 
French satirist. 

P. 332, 1. 22. Machiavelli: A great Italian political writer. 

P. 332, 1. 23. Campanella: An Italian philosopher. 

P. 333, 1. 22. Recherche: Carefully sought out: secluded. 

P. 334, 1 7. Non distributio medii: "The undistributed middle." In 
the science of logic, three statements are necessary to a conclusion. In 
the premises or the middle term, there must be an assertion of totality, 



NOTES 519 

or, else, we have the "undistributed middle." Thus, from the assertion 
that chairs are seats and benches are seats, it does not follow that chairs 
are benches, because both chairs and benches are but limited portions of 
the class of seats. Poe's illustration would be as follows : Some men 
are fools; all fools are poets — but it does not follow that all poets are 
fools, because since only some men are fools, a man may be a poet and 
not a fool. 

P. 334, 1. 20. Par excellence: Preeminent. 

P. 334, 1. 22. II y a a parier: "It is a safe wager that every common 
idea, every received convention, is a piece of stupidity, since it is accept- 
able to the mob." 

P. 334, 1. 32. Ambitus: A "going around"; hence, an unlawful office- 
seeking, or soliciting of votes. 

P. 334, 1. 32. Religio: Conscientiousness, not religiousness in our 
sense of the word. 

P. 334, 1. 33. Homines honesti: Distinguished men. 

P. 335, 1. 24. Bryant: Jacob, an English antiquarian, 1715-1804. 

P. 336, 1. 12. Intriguant: Intriguer. 

P. 337, 1. 10. Vis inertiae: The force of inertia, the resisting power 
of dead matter. 

P. 341, 1. 8. Facilis descensus Averni: "Easy is the descent into 
Avernus," or hell. 

P. 341, 1. 12. Monstrum horrendum: A dreadful monster. 

P. 341, 11. 26-27. Un dessein si funeste: "So baleful a design, if not 
worthy of Atreus is worthy of Thyestes." The reference is to the sons of 
Pelops. Thyestes wronged the wife of his brother Atreus, and in revenge 
Atreus killed Thyestes's son and served him up at a banquet. 

P. 341, 1. 28. Crebillon: Prosper de, a noted French poet. 

SIDNEY LANIER 

Song of the Chattahoochee 

Compare with this poem Tennyson's "The Brook," Southey's "The 
Cataract of Lodore," and Hayne's "Meadow Brook." It first appeared 
in Scott's Magazine, Atlanta, in 1877. 

P. 342, 11. 1-2. Habersham, Hall: Adjoining counties in northeastern 
Georgia. The Chattahoochee rises in Habersham, runs through Hall, 
and thence flows in a southwesterly direction to the Alabama line, empty- 
ing into the Gulf of Mexico. 



520 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

The Marshes of Glynn 
This poem was first published in The Masque of Poets. Glynn is a 
county on the coast of Georgia, near Brunswick. Lanier was born at 
Macon, Georgia, and was familiar with this region. 

Tampa Robins 
This poem was first published in Lippincott's Magazine, 1877. "These 
three qualities, technical mastery, independent thought, and spiritual 
perception and passion, are the head-marks of Lanier's best poetry; and 
the chief of this trinity of traits is the message of the spirit." — Burton, 
Literary Leaders of America. 

HENRY TIMROD 

The Cotton Boll 
Whittier thought "The Cotton Boll," in its simple grandeur, the noblest 
poem ever written by a Southerner. 

P. 349, 1. 28. Cirque: An ampitheatric valley in a mountain. 
P. 350, 1. 22. Uriel: 

The Archangel Uriel, one of the seven 

Who in God's presence, nearest to his throne, 

Stand ready at his command, and are his eyes. 

—Milton, Paradise Lost, III, 648-50. 

P. 351, 1. 21. Poet of "The Woodlands": William Gilmore Simms, of 
South Carolina. 

P. 352, 1. 23. Cornwall: A southwestern county of England. The 
Cornish mines run far under the sea. 

P. 353, 1. 18. Goth: Here, the Federal soldier. The Goths, an ancient 
Teutonic race established in the region of the lower Danube in the third 
century, A. D., were among the invaders of the Roman Empire. 

Magnolia Cemetery Ode 
This ode was sung on the occasion of the decoration of the graves 
of the Confederate dead, at Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, S. C, in 
1867. Compare William Collins's "How Sleep the Brave!" 

PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 
The Mocking Bird 
Note how Hayne lets the melody mount with the mocking bird: 



NOTES 521 

beginning on a low branch, the bird and the music ascend in dazzling 
spirals. Read Keat's "Ode to the Nightingale," Shelley's "Ode to 
the Skylark," "Wordsworth's "Ode to a Skylark," and the poems of 
Lanier and Wilde on the mocking bird. 

The Will and the Wing 

The poet Hayne once wrote to Mrs. Preston : "No, no ! by my brain — 
my literary craft — I will win my bread and water ; by my poems I will 
live or starve." This determination to achieve recognition in poetic 
expression, this dedication of his life to the demands and rewards of 
poesy, is best set forth in the fourth stanza of "The Will and the Wing." 

P. 358, 1. 21. Tantalus: In Greek mythology, Tantalus was a son of 
Zeus; because he .revealed the secrets of the gods, he was condemned 
to stand in Tartarus up to his chin in water under a loaded fruit tree, 
the fruit and the water retreating whenever he sought to satisfy his 
hunger or thirst. From his name is derived the word "tantalize." 



ABRAM J. RYAN 

The Sword of Lee 

Strong love, enduring devotion, undying loyalty are characteristics 
of the poem. Without the mysticism of Arthur's "Excalibur," it breathes 
all the purity, faith, and idealism of thw Arthurian ideal. Father Ryan 
admirably sums up the morn, noon, and evening of the Confederate 
cause. 

JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON 

Music in Camp 
This poem is based on an incident that occurred in the winter of 
1862-63, while the Federal and Confederate armies were encamped on 
opposite sides of the Rappahannock river, near Fredericksburg, Virginia. 
The Rappahannock, over two hundred miles in length and flowing into 
Chesapeake Bay, was of great strategic importance in the War between 
the States. 

P. 364, 1. 13. The Iris: The rainbow. 

P. 364, 1. 24. One touch: "One touch of nature makes the whole world 
kin."— Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida, III, 3. But the line in Shake- 
speare refers to the love of novelty and is not used in a complimentary 
sense. 



522 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Carcasonne. 
The poem is a translation from the French of Gustave Nadaud. 
Carcasonne, one of the most charming old towns in France, is the 
capital of the Department of Aude. 

P. 366, 1. 8. Narbonne: A city of southern France. Perpignon is an 
important fortress in the Department of Pyrenees — Orientales. Limoux 
is a town thirteen miles southwest of Carcasonne. 

P. 366, 1. 20. Each mortal: The key to the dramatic monologue is 
found in the concluding couplet : 

"He never gazed on Carcasonne, — 
Each mortal has his Carcasonne." 



WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 

The Defense of the Block-House 
The Yemassee, similar in subject to the tales of James Fenimore 
Cooper, is concerned with an Indian uprising in South Carolina in the 
early eighteenth century. The Yemassee Indians, who had grown 
hostile to the English, planned a general attack on the settlers in the 
southeastern part of the colony. The chief Sanutee aroused the tribe, 
and, with the help of the Spanish and a band of pirates, made a raid 
on the settlements. After burning and plundering many dwellings, the 
Indians concentrated their forces on the siege of a block-house. The 
besieged, well-nigh exhausted by a long and trying defense, were finally 
relieved by a party under the command of the gallant Governor Craven, 
who figures in the story as Captain Gabriel Harrison. 



JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY 

The Master and Mistress of Swallow Barn 
Swallow Barn is a delightful story of ante-bellum days in Virginia, 
supposedly narrated by a visiting cousin from New York. The sketches 
treat of Southern people — their hospitality, their customs, their home 
life, their peculiar traits of character. One is reminded of the Sir Roger 
de Coverley Papers by Addison and Steele. 



NOTES 523 

JOHN ESTEN COOKE 

An Incident at Governor Fauquier's Ball 

The Virginia Comedians (1854) is a picture of the romantic days of 
colonial Virginia shortly before the outbreak of the Revolution. The 
scene of the story is Williamsburg, then the capital of Virginia, and the 
principal characters are Champ Effingham and Beatrice Hallam, the 
beautiful young leading lady of "The Virginian Comedians," playing in 
Williamsburg. 

P. 393, 1. 1. Governor Fauquier: Governor of Virginia, 1758-68. 

P. 393, 1. 14. Twopenny- Act: An act passed by the Virginia assembly 
in 1755, and reenacted in 1758, which substituted payments of salaries of 
officials in money for tobacco, the legal currency of the colony. This 
was done because the price of tobacco had risen to an unprecedented 
height on account of the French and Indian war. The ministers of the 
Established church, who were salaried officials, resisted this substitu- 
tion and appealed to the courts. 

P. 393, 1. 21. The Virginia Antiquary: Richard Bland, of Prince 
George, one of the most learned and patriotic of Virginians. 

P. 393, 1. 23. The Colonel's Dismounted: A pamphlet written by the 
Reverend John Camm replying to writings of Bland and giving the 
clerical side of the "Twopenny-Act" controversy. 

P. 393 1. 31. Seigneur of Chantilly: Richard Henry Lee, one of the 
foremost leaders of the American Revolution. 

P. 394, 1. 1. Reverend Mr. Maury: One of the ministers who tested 
the "Twopenny-Act" in the courts. Maury's case was tried in Hanover 
county court, and it was on this occasion that Patrick Henry made his 
first great speech. 

P. 394, 1. 3. Friend from Caroline: Edmund Pendleton, a leading 
Virginian of the day. 

P. 395, 1. 10. Anacreon: An ancient Greek poet, a writer of beau- 
tiful odes. 

P. 395, 1. 18. Demosthenes: The most famous of Greek' orators. 

P. 395, 1. 20. Alexander: Alexander the Great, king of Macedon. 

HENRY WOODFIN GRADY 

The New South 
The speech which first brought Grady into prominence was "The 
New South," delivered before The New England Society of New York 



524 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

in 1886. "It was a speech of twenty minutes in length," says James W. 
Lee, "but it did more to unite the North and the South than all the 
orations of politicians and discussions of editors that had occupied public 
attention since the war." 

P. 407, I. 25. Talmage: Thomas De WituTalmage, one of the best- 
known clergymen of the time. 

P. 408, 1. 8. Appomattox: General Robert E. Lee surrendered his 
army at Appomattox Courthouse on April 9, 1865. 
P. 410, 1. 15. Piping times: 

Why I, in this weak piping time of peace, 
Have no delight to pass away the time. 

—Shakespeare, Richard III, I, 1. 
P. 411, I. 8. Toombs: Robert Toombs, 1810-1885, a noted Georgia 
statesman and a Confederate general. 

P. 412, 1. 5. Johnston: Joseph Eggleston Johnston, who commanded 
the Confederate army in the West in the latter part of the war. 

P. 414, 1. 30. Those opposed eyes: See Shakespeare, Henry IV, I, 1. 



GEORGE WASHINGTON CABLE 

New Orleans Before the Capture 

This is Cable's narrative of his recollections of New Orleans in the 
early days of the War between the States. He served as a soldier in 
the Fourth Mississippi cavalry. 

P. 415 1. 11. Canal Street: The most famous thoroughfare of New 
Orleans. 

P. 416, 1. 25. Issuing money: In the South during the War between 
the States, cities, towns, and even individuals issued paper money. 

P. 418, 1. 5. The Mississippi: The reference apparently is to the Con- 
federate ram Manassas, from which much was expected, but which proved 
to be slow and almost useless. 

P. 420, I. 20. Two officers of the United States navy: Captain Theo- 
dorus Bailey and Lieutenant George H. Perkins. The city was not 
surrendered to these officers, and the next day (April 26, 1862), Farragut 
sent another officer to demand a surrender; it was not until April 29 
that the State flag was lowered from the city hall. 






NOTES 525 

JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 

Mr. Rabbit Grossly Deceives Mr. Fox 

Joel Chandler Harris reveals the Southern negro, not as an acces- 
sory of the white man, but as a distinctive racial figure with a rich 
inheritance of folklore. 

MARY NOAILLES MURFREE 
"CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK" 
The Gander Pulling 
The selection is from Chapter Five. It describes one of the amuse- 
ments long popular in backwoods neighborhoods. The stories of Miss 
Murfree admirably depict the shut-in life of the East Tennessee moun- 
taineers. The author spent fifteen summers in this picturesque region, 
studying the people. 

JAMES LANE ALLEN 

The Hemp 

In almost poetic language the writer traces the history of the hemp 
in the Kentucky Blue Grass region, of which he himself is a native. 
The passage is a little Epic of the Hemp. 

THOMAS NELSON PAGE 

The Old Virginia Lawyer 

Page's peculiar field is ante-bellum Virginia, and he has pictured 
with charm the civilization of the Old South in its finer aspects. 

P. 439, 1. 27. Client: A Roman word denoting dependence on a 
wealthy or noble patron. 

P. 441, 1. 4. Common law: The common law of England, also in use 
in the United States. It had its origin in custom and not in acts of 
legislative bodies. 

P. 441, 1. 11. Pleading: The statement of a case made by a lawyer 
in the preliminaries of a trial. 

P. 441, 1. 15. Declaration: The first description of a law case pre- 
pared by the plaintiff's counsel. 



526 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

WILLIAM SIDNEY PORTER 
"O. HENRY" 

The Gift of the Magi 
O. Henry has been aptly termed by Professor C. Alphonso Smith "the 
valiant knight of the shop girl." No writer before William Sidney 
Porter had found the department store "heroines" proper material for 
the short story. O. Henry said that he tried to show that "the innate 
propensity of human nature is to choose the good instead of the bad." 
"The Gift of the Magi" is found in the volume entitled The Four Mil- 
lion. 

ABRAHAM LINCOLN 
The Gettysburg Address 
This famous speech was delivered at the dedication of the National 
Cemetery, Gettysburg, Penn., on November 19, 1863. 

WALT WHITMAN 
O Captain! My Captain! 

This is a lament for the death of Lincoln. It is the one rhyming 
poem of Whitman. 

As Toilsome I Wandered Virginia's Woods 
This poem celebrates Whitman's ministrations in army camps. A 
spirit of comradeship, a tenderness of feeling for the wounded and 
the dead, a desire to pay a tribute to those who have passed with no 
monument to relate their heroic deeds — these are found in the poem. 

When Lilacs Last in the Door- Yard Bloomed 

This is a noble dirge for Lincoln, Whitman's hero. Stedman regards 
it as one of the finest poetic utterances in our literature. 

BAYARD TAYLOR 

Bedouin Song 
The Bedouins are nomadic Arabs who occupy the deserts adjoining 
central and northern Egypt. They live in tents, and their chief occupa- 
tion is breeding cattle. They are courageous and warlike. 



527 NOTES 

SAMUEL LANGHORNE CLEMENS 
"MARK TWAIN" 

The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County 

Calaveras, a county of California, is about forty miles from Sacra- 
mento. The collection of short stories, entitled The Celebrated Jump- 
ing Frog and Other Sketches, was composed of newspaper and maga- 
zine articles which had appeared before 1867. The publication of the 
volume assured "Mark Twain's" reputation as a humorist^a reputation 
that Clemens did not altogether relish, as he regarded his work as of 
more serious import than the mere portrayal of laughable oddities of 
character and situation. The Adventures of Torn Sawyer (1876) and 
Huckleberry Finn (1884) are books that every boy should read. 

BRET HARTE 

Tennessee's Partner 
In the wild mining regions of the far West, Bret Harte has placed 
the scene of his famous stories, "The Luck of Roaring Camp," "The 
Outcasts of Poker Flat," and "Tennessee's Partner." "Tennessee's 
Partner" is an appealing bit of realism, the pathos of which is relieved 
by touches of humor. It shows "definiteness of effect with economy of 
language; the narrative begins and proceeds straight to the climax; the 
totality of impression is complete." 

P\ 446, I. 27. Dungaree: A coarse cotton stuff, usually of blue color, 
worn by sailors. 

P. 467, 1. 1. Saleratus: Sodium bicarbonate, an ingredient of baking 
powders. 

P. 467, 1. 5. Pyrites: A yellow metal resembling gold. 

P. 468, 1. 24. Chaparral: A dense thicket of rough thorny shrubs. 

P. 469, 1. 2. Sierra: A Spanish word meaning "mountain range." 

P. 473, 1. 31. Catafalque: A funeral car, usually overhung with a 
canopy. 

P. 474, 1. 12. Cortege: A train of attendants. 

EDWARD ROWLAND SILL 
The Fool's Prayer 
This is Sill's best-known poem. The student should also read "Oppor 
tunity" and "The Venus of Milo.' 



528 READINGS IN AMERICAN LITERATURE 

EUGENE FIELD 

"Wynken, Blynken, and Nod," and "Little Boy Blue" need neither 
introduction nor comment to this generation of school children. Boys 
and girls have always loved the poet Field for these charming interpre- 
tations of child life. 

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 

The Hoosier poet has ever had a large following, especially among 
children. In the poems selected for this volume may be found several 
of Riley's notable traits : simplicity of thought and phrasing, unadorned 
pathos, and a kind of lyric tenderness. The philosophy of humble life 
is his main field; and "the laureate of the common people" is his befit- 
ting soubriquet. 

JOAQUIN MILLER 

Columbus 

This is a poem of indomitable courage and pluck; it contains lines 
which reveal the heart of America, the soul of the nation. 

P. 483, 1. 12. Azores: A group of islands about a thousand miles 
west of Portugal. 

P. 483, 1. 13. Gates of Hercules: The straits of Gibraltar. 



